


December

by johnwatso, Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Vacation, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, New Year's Eve, Post-Season/Series 04, Rosie is inexplicably absent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 40,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: Sherlock and John fall in love during a summer in December.





	1. “Hi. So. What’s new?”

**Author's Note:**

> This holiday fic is a collaboration between johnwatso ([xtiin](http://xtiin.tumblr.com) on tumblr) as Sherlock and Salambo06 ([beenchantd](http://beenchantd.tumblr.com) on tumblr) as John.  
> It will update daily throughout December. Each chapter is based on dialogue prompts written by Salambo06.

His phone wakes him up. It’s close to seven thirty. He had been dreaming and he’s sweaty and breathless. Serbia or John? They blur together these days, both equal in intensity and the abject misery produced from thinking about either with too much scrutiny. In his waking hours, he tries (and inevitably fails, if he’s being honest) not to inspect either topic too closely. His subconscious, however, is a different story, the ghosts of his Mind Palace coming out to refresh his memory again, and again, and again, reopening every scar he thought he had patched over, albeit shoddily.

“Yes,” he answers, voice gruff with sleep and disuse, eyes not yet even open. He could do with some coffee or nicotine.

“It’s your lucky day,” comes Lestrade’s cheery voice on the other end. “Double homicide. No suspects. No evidence. ‘Round the corner from you.”

“Text me the address.”

“Are you bringing _—_ ”

“I’ll be there alone. Thirty minutes.” He rings off and tosses his phone onto the side table, heaves a deep sigh and swings his legs off the bed. He may as well get up.

While he’s putting his shirt on, his phone rings again.

“I told you,” he barks into the speaker, more sour than usual these days, “Thirty minutes.”

He’s about to hang up again when _—_

“Hi.” Casual. Too casual. Why is he so casual?

He realises it has been a little while and he hasn’t said anything in response, but he somehow forgot how to speak.

Three months, four days and sixteen hours. And seventeen minutes, to be precise. The last time he spoke to John. It hadn’t even been in person, just a passing phone call to ‘check in,’ as he had so delicately put it. They had spoken for exactly one minute and three seconds before it was over. A capsule of the entirety of their relationship boiled down to just that. Sherlock knew that was the last time they’d speak again. Or thought so, anyway.

“So,” he continues, talking over Sherlock’s prolonged silence, a habit they never used to be in need of. “What’s new?”

“Really?” Sherlock can’t help but ask.

John sighs, weariness transmitted even through the phone.

He decides to switch gears: “I’ve got a case on, actually. Lestrade just called. Sounds promising. A seven, maybe an eight.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

The question is unspoken, but hovers over the exchange all the same.

“Where?”

Three months, four days, sixteen hours and twenty minutes and he’s going to see John again.

* * *

He arrives at the crime scene barely thirty minutes later, anxious about who he will see there and trying desperately to push it out of his mind. He can’t allow this to overtake the work. The work must be held above all, paramount to his continued existence. This is why he deflected sentiment for all those years. Hideous and heinous and _distracting._ A luxury he can’t afford, no matter how badly his hateful heart insists otherwise. He didn’t choose this. Given the option, he wouldn’t want it. Yes, it has made him capable of a lot more, emotionally speaking, but, if anything, all it has brought him is grief. One grief after another, all tumbling together to form an avalanche of heartache, so deep and so varied that it frightens him at times.

Mycroft was right. He should never have gotten _involved_. People get married and generally move on with their lives - it’s what they do. He’s just a stepping stone of the path to all of that. Part of the journey, not the desired end product.

And he has learnt to accept that; of course he has. No choice, really. He has his work, still, even after everything. Most days, he doesn’t mind. Most days, it’s just the norm. Some days, however, it thrums through his veins like the steady beat of a drum - the fact of it. The fact of _not you_.

_Not you. Not you. Not y—_

“Hi,” John interrupts, and it appears he has been standing there for quite some time. He hands him a coffee, which Sherlock accepts with a nod of thanks.

“Sooo… What have we got here?”

It’s awkward and stilted and Sherlock loathes it but he also knows that he would never forgive himself if he denied himself even this. Awkward, stilted, almost-stranger John is better than no John at all, so soldier on he must.

“Double homicide. Care to take a look? Tell me what you see?” he gestures towards the bodies.

And it’s like old times, almost, if old times were a little bit uncomfortable.

The conversation doesn’t flow at all, but they do manage to talk a bit, between deductions and interrogations.

“How’ve you been?” John asks nonchalantly.

Sherlock grunts in reply.

“Work okay?” Sherlock asks while he examines a bit of soil, not lifting his eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s alright.”

It happens when they’re busy with a suspect, who clearly had nothing to do with it and is, in fact, a complete and utter moron.

Sherlock looks over at John, who happens to be looking at him, too. It used to be like this, before. They’d think the same thing at the same time and meet each other’s eyes, grins barely covered.

John’s eyes twinkle with mischief and unspilt laughter and Sherlock struggles to swallow down a giggle and, just like that, they’re laughing, easy and shared, like a breath of life from one mouth to another and back again, keeping him alive.

They laugh so hard, they’re doubled over, the moment so complete and quintessentially _them_ that Sherlock forgets everything that came before, just for a split second.

He forgets that this isn’t his; not anymore. That it never was. That it never will be.


	2. "I can't believe they left us here!"

Sherlock is not particularly fond of legwork, but having John by his side, like old times, makes it worthwhile somehow. He finds comfort in their shared tread, John’s steps slightly shorter but just as - if not more - insistent. The weight and heat of John right next to him, close enough to touch if he wanted to or could. 

They’re in the middle of godforsaken Slough trying to examine the surrounding rock formations and soil (riveting, he has to note, if not a little bit tedious due to John having to stand around waiting for him to painstakingly try to match the sample to what he finds). It has thus far proven to be fruitful, but the day has been long and cold and he’d very much like to go home now, preferably with John and the fireplace and a strong cup of Earl Grey tea with honey thank you.

He’s climbing a particularly grassy little hill when he loses his footing and falls right on his bottom. Perfect. John is there in a flash, kneeling down and inspecting him. 

“Are you okay?” the army doctor in him asks, efficiency permeating out of every consonant.

“Fine,” he says, trying to get back up but slipping even more on the wet, muddy grass.

“Stop struggling so much,” John insists, standing up in one fluid motion. “Here.” He offers his hand to Sherlock, like a peace offering. It almost puts a balm on what happened the last time they saw each other, before the three months, four days and sixteen hours. Almost.

Sherlock takes the offered hand and, when he’s standing upright again, he doesn’t let go for a few seconds. The feel of John’s palm against his is too intoxicating; another drug he’s not allowed to indulge in.

John clears his throats and the spell is broken.

“We’re done here,” he says, letting go, pulling his mobile out and dialling Lestrade.

“Oh, shit,” comes Lestrade’s answering greeting. 

“No,” Sherlock says, deducing already what happened.

“Sorry, mate. Looks like you’re gonna have to take public transport like a commoner. Maybe it’ll do you some good to be among the mere civilians, take in the city air, know what it feels like for a simple _ —” _

If it is possible to hang up emphatically, he does so, cutting off Lestrade’s inane ramblings with a button press and an eye-roll.

“What’d he say?” John asks.

“They’re gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

“I think it’s quite clear from the word itself what I mean.”

“Yeah, don’t be a smart-arse. How are we going to get home now?”

Sherlock hesitates, stuck on the word  _ home _ , before he realises that John was probably referring to central London as a whole, and not the specific flat that they used to share.

“We’ll call a cab.”

“We can’t call a cab. We’re ages away. I can’t believe they left us here!”

John is angry. Why is he angry? Yes, it’s a minor inconvenience, but it certainly doesn’t warrant this kind of reaction. Is it that he’s stuck out here with Sherlock? Is that truly so bad?

“The train, then,” he suggests evenly, wanting to solve this predicament for John before it becomes an even bigger nuisance to be here with him.

John sighs. “Fine. Let’s get going.”

He pulls out his phone and speaks, low and frustrated.

“Hi, yeah, I’m stuck in Slough. It’s going to be a while, but I’ll be there. Sorry about this. I never should have…” A quick glance in Sherlock’s direction and the sentence peters off. “ I’ll be there soon, though.”

It never used to be like this. Before, if they were tied up at a crime scene, they’d brush it off, knowing that all they had to go home to was each other. 

Even when John was in one inane relationship or another, even when he was married, they’d run around, catching trains, planes and every manner of automobile to be wherever they needed to be, unconcerned about the time or the traffic or anything else that may delay them.

As they walk to the station, he’s struck by how different things are. How much things changed from one day to the next, really. One day they were each other’s lives and, the next, he had to jump from a building and leave it all behind, not knowing that he could never get it back again, not to any degree, really.

Now, John has a whole other life. Other priorities. Even with Mary gone, they can never get back what they had. He gave that all up the moment he made that decision. 

And, oh, how he regrets it sometimes. Not the saving John’s life part, but all the rest of it. If only he could have found a way to plaster it all together, even while he was gone. If only he could have made another plan. If only he wasn’t a monumental idiot who ruined every good thing that he ever happened upon.

They could have had some part of it back after Mary was gone, but it could never be, especially not after all that still stood between them. Not after ‘my Baker Street boys’ and a beating in a morgue and a secret that shattered between them.

One tribulation after the other, the list grew endless, the wounds too deep and too unfathomably irreversible.

They board the train in silence, John’s irritation emanating off of him in waves. Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, so he keeps them in his pockets and turns his coat collar up, activating his armour. 

The train is crowded with all manner of people, putting Sherlock’s senses on high alert. It’s difficult for him to focus on the case with all these blaring distractions, John included.

They’re shuffled about until finally, they find a place to stand in the middle of the carriage, John’s front pressed against Sherlock’s side. It’s awfully intimate and close, which is only serving to heighten Sherlock’s anxiety at present, overstimulated in every sense.

“Hey,” John says softly, close to his ear. “Alright?”

“Obviously,” he huffs out quickly, before his unsteady breathing can betray him.

“Right,” John replies tightly, turning his body slightly away, as if the mere thought of being in such close proximity to Sherlock is abhorrent to him.

Sherlock can’t blame him, he supposes. If he were John, he also wouldn’t want to get too close. Not when everything in his life is so irreparably fractured. The pieces used to be interesting, but, on a nearing-middle-age man, it’s pathetic. He can’t laugh it off as eccentric or attractive. Not anymore. It’s one thing to flirt with danger and quite another to live in the eye of it, constantly.

He’ll solve the case when he gets back, all the little pieces clicking together stunningly. For once, though, the euphoric high that accompanies such epiphanies is lacking. 

As they travel along, the train empties and fills, empties and fills, and, when they change lines, Sherlock realises they haven’t said a word to each other for at least forty minutes.

It never used to be like this.


	3. "My head hurts."

John gets out of the train, barely meeting Sherlock’s eyes while waving his goodbye. Why did he ever think it would be alright to just call and meet him for a case? After all that has happened, of course it can’t ever be the same. John isn’t an idiot, contrary to what Sherlock might sometimes think. He knows the damage is too deep, too settle in their history to simply forget about it all. Still, despite Mary, despite his anger, despite last time, he had dared to hope - even for just a second - that it could be alright. Or at least a semblance of what they used to be. He almost thought they had it when laughter took over them both, but the bubble had popped as quickly as it had formed, leaving only blankness and the same void.

His phone chimes again, and he hurries down the street. He knows he should have cancelled when Sherlock called - cases always come first, as he used to think, once upon a lifetime. And now, he needs to get to Bart’s as quickly as possible. Mike had made sure to read over his draft that weekend, and now he was the one making him wait. Still, as he made his way into Bart’s and up the stairs, John can’t help but wonder if he’ll one day be able to walk in here without feeling empty.

“John! Over here!”

John turns around, finding Mike talking to another professor. He waits until he’s done before saying, “Sorry again.”

“I okay,” Mike smiles. “I’m used to it, even if it’s been a while, I have to say.”

“I know,” John replies, avoiding his eyes and focusing on the files in Mike’s hand instead. “So, what did you think?”

“Brilliant! I loved it. Can’t wait to read more.” He hands the files over. “I edited in red so that it’s easier for you to see. Of course, I’d be happy to discuss anything you don’t understand.”

“I’ll come by if necessary, but I’m sure it’s great. Thank you again.”

“No worries.” Mike remains silent for a moment. “So, how’s Sherlock?”

John hesitates. Should he tell him about the complete lack of contact? Or maybe the stiffness of their conversation? Or even better, how Sherlock couldn’t stand touching him on the train?

“Good. He’s good.”

“Tell him to come by next time you see him,” Mike says, half laughing. “I missed his deductions, if you can believe it!”

 _Oh I do_.

“I will. I’m sorry, I have to run again,” John says, already desperate to leave.

“Of course, of course. Keep in touch?”

“Yes,” John replies, walking away. “Thank you again.”

He flees before Mike decides to ask him about the case, or worse, Sherlock again. How can he explain that he has absolutely no idea how Sherlock is doing. That he had lost his place as a best friend a long time ago, and did nothing to win it back. In fact, he only made sure it would stay this way.

And yet, walking out of Bart’s, John finds himself heading towards Baker Street. He doesn’t stop until he’s staring at the bright 221, breaths coming short and his heart hammering in his ears. He has no business being here. Sherlock let him come on the case only because he had called. He would have gone alone, gotten stuck in the middle of nowhere alone, solved it alone. 

_He doesn’t need you anymore. Probably never has._

“John! Is that you, dear? Come in!”

There is little John can do before he’s being dragged inside by Mrs Hudson’s strong grip around his arm. She doesn’t give him a chance to talk, all but pushing him up the stairs while rambling about biscuits and tea. 

And suddenly, he’s alone, facing a door he had once opened too many times to keep count, a door he can’t seem to be able to find the handle to anymore. 

It’s the noise of something breaking that forces him to rush in, alarmed.

“Sherlock?!”

He finds him lying on the sofa, a cup of tea broken of the floor. With no apparent reaction, John goes to check on him only to meet two dark eyes. He swallows around the knot in his throat, forcing himself to breathe in and out slowly.

“Is everything alright?”

Sherlock is up so fast that he almost knocks him over. 

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock’s voice is sharp and, yet, John finds himself pushing on.

“I… I wanted to see if you solved the case,” he tries.

Sherlock picks up his violin, plucking on a string for a few seconds before dropping it back on the chair. 

“Yes.”

John waits, feeling more uncomfortable in what used to be his home than ever. 

“And?”

Sherlock disappears into the kitchen, making rather a lot of noise in there before coming back empty handed. John frowns, the tableau looking all too familiar.

“Are you okay?”

“She was dead for hours. Solving the case didn’t change anything. The double murder was a distraction, a diversion. The target had been her all along, of course. It’s so obvious but here we were, looking at all the wrong places and-“

“Sherlock,” John calls over his rambling. “Stop.”

Sherlock looks at him then, really looks at him, and John can see the hurt and desperation there. Unable to stop himself, he crosses the room to meet him.

“Tell me,” he says, almost a whisper. 

Sherlock’s entire body seems to give up then, and John has to stop himself from reaching over and touching him. 

“My head hurts,” Sherlock finally says, eyes fluttering close. 

John knows what he would have done years ago in such a situation, leading Sherlock to the sofa and rubbing his scalp slowly until he fell asleep. But now… now just the mere thought of putting his hands on Sherlock makes his whole body ache. 

“Do you want…” he starts, unable to stop himself.

Sherlock barely nods, a movement so small it might not have been there at all. But John’s hands respond faster than his brain, reaching out and threading through curls he already knows to be so very soft. 

And so they remain there, standing a feet apart, John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair. Nothing has felt so right in a very long time. 


	4. "I'm glad you came."

Two whole days.

John waits two whole days before truly panicking. In complete honesty, it started right after he left Sherlock’s flat, his head filled with Sherlock’s scent and his fingers tickling with the memory of Sherlock’s hair. He doesn’t recognize the first sign of panic right away, and it’s only when he wakes up hard and panting in the middle of the night that he realise what he did exactly. 

Then, he panics.

He tries not to think about it at first. He knows his body and mind, knows how it works, and so expects the thoughts to go away naturally. After all, he’s more than used to dreaming about Sherlock, no matter the nature of the dream. But then, he remembers how it ended up _last time_. How he came so close to ruining it all for good, how it might still be the case. And so, panic comes rushing back.

What was he thinking, offering a scalp massage? 

He had sworn to himself that he would never touch Sherlock again, never embarrass him again. He had worked so hard to make him forget about it all, and now he was massaging his head as if it were the most natural thing to do in such situations. 

And here he is, three days later, staring at his phone and wondering if he is allowed one last mistake. His fingers work against him, and the phone rings for a small eternity before Sherlock answers, and then, silence.

“Sherlock?” John asks after a few seconds, barely breathing.

“John.”

_He hates me. I’ve finally done it. He hates me._

“How…” He pushes on, suddenly very much aware this could be the last time he’s talking to Sherlock. “How are you?”

“What happened?” 

John forces himself to breathe out slowly, “Nothing. I just… wanted to check if everything was alright?”

“Oh.”

They both remain silent for a long moment. John sits down, hands shaking.

“I…” he clears his throat. “I also wanted to apologize for the case the other day. I feel like I’ve ruined it and I… well, I just wanted to say… that.”

Another silence. 

“You didn’t ruin the case,” Sherlock finally says, his voice barely audible over the phone. 

“Still, I shouldn’t have gone the way I did.” 

John hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should tell him about the book. Maybe Sherlock would want to read it, ask him to come over even. 

“I’m glad you came,” Sherlock says, taking John by surprise. “You didn’t ruin the case.”

John closes his eyes, the shy edge in Sherlock’s voice making it hard to breathe all of a sudden. 

Christ, how he misses him. He wants to be home, needs to be home with him right now. What the hell is he still doing in this flat?

“Yeah?” he can’t help but breathe out.

“Yes,” comes Sherlock’s voice, just as quiet.

“Maybe… Maybe I could check on the inbox, see if there’s something there for us.”

“Above an eight?” Sherlock asks, and John could laugh. Or cry, maybe.

“Above an eight,” he replies, knowing for certain Sherlock can hear the smile in his voice but not caring in the slightest. 

“You let me know, then.”

“Yes, sure, yes,” John replies, clearing his throat as he dares to add, “I could come over.”

Silence again, but this time filled with something so heavy that John has to hold his breath.

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock finally asks.

John curses against himself for calling so late in the day.

“Around lunch?”

“Yes, that works.”

John exhales slowly, “Good. That’s… good.”

“I should get back to…”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He waits for a second, wondering if Sherlock’s still there. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, John.”

John hangs up before he can make a fool of himself, staring at the phone in his hand for a long moment afterward. He does nothing to prevent the bright laughter escaping him, nor about the sudden warmth filling his chest. 


	5. “What about going out tonight? Maybe dinner?”

John arrives outside Baker Street exactly fifteen minutes before lunchtime. After spending all morning pacing around his flat, there was really no other option but to simply get going. He hadn’t stared too long at himself in the mirror before leaving, refusing to overthink this meeting more than he should. He needs not to think of this lunch as anything but just that - two friends (hopefully, still) sharing a meal. If he can keep this in mind, then he shouldn’t make a fool of himself any further.

Still, standing outside and staring up at the living room window, John can’t help but feel anxious. He needs to remain in control, no matter what happens and, most importantly, keep his hands to himself. No more touching without Sherlock’s explicit consent. No wine or scotch either. And definitely no talk about all that has happened. Just cases and small talk. 

John sighs, a knot forming inside his chest. No matter what came between them, he still finds himself wondering just how exactly they got to this point.

“Ok, Watson,” he murmurs. “Into battle.”

He uses the key he never got to give Sherlock back and carefully avoids Mrs Hudson’s flat. His legs becoming heavier with each step, John gathers the rest of his courage to knock and almost - almost - doesn’t flinch when Sherlock opens. They remain there, standing without talking, for a long moment, and it’s only when Sherlock takes a step back that John remembers he’s supposed to go in.

“Did you order Thai?” he asks, noticing the smell. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, closing the door slowly. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted but I remembered this was a favourite of yours so I figured it would be alright. But we can order something el—”

“It’s perfect,” John cuts him off, taking off his jacket and feeling better already.

Sherlock looks at him for another long moment before nodding towards the kitchen. They go without another word, John sitting down while trying not to think of all the breakfasts, lunches and dinners they have shared around this very same table. 

“So, did you have time to look at the case I sent you?” John asks finally, not quite meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“Not yet,” Sherlock replies, picking at his food. “I thought you could tell me about it.”

John hides his smile. “Sure, yes.” 

He breathes in slowly, trying to think of all the right words to make the case sound more interesting. “A board member of the Bank of London contacted us about missing money. He found some emails but can’t seem to be able to get the information he wants from them. He thinks they might be encrypted. He needs our help to find out what those emails are about so that he can bring proof to the other board members.”

John stops, feeling breathless. He looks up to find Sherlock staring at him. 

“What do you think?”

Sherlock remains silent for long seconds, leaving just enough time for John to start panicking again.

“They’re probably using some kind of code,” Sherlock remarks, most likely talking to himself.

John shakes his head, “That’s what I thought too. Mark said we can contact him any time.”

“Now?”

John doesn’t try to hide his excitement this time, already pushing away his food. 

“I could send him an email and see if he’s free.”

Sherlock nods and John hurries to type a quick email. He puts his phone on the table between them, not exactly sure if he should wish for a rapid reply or not. Sherlock is still more playing with his food than eating it, but John takes a few more sips of his soup before asking, “So, how’s everyone?”

Sherlock frowns at him. “Everyone?”

“Yeah. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade?”

The question only earns him more frowning, but John holds Sherlock’s stare.

“You’ve seen them both recently, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t exactly see Mrs Hudson, she just pushed me up the stairs, really,” John says, unable to stop smiling. “And I didn’t really have the time to talk to Lestrade before he forgot us in Slough.”

Sherlock doesn’t exactly smile back, and John takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you about Lestrade?” Sherlock finally replies. “He is your more friend than mine.”

John looks down at this bowl. “I’d say he’s _our_ friend.”

Silence, uncomfortable and thick, falls back up between them. John closes his eyes for a brief second. So that’s it then, they are no longer a _we_. Just two people who used to share most of everything, only to have close to nothing in common anymore. And at the center of it all, his own inability to communicate without messing it all up. And even now, sitting here, barely able to look Sherlock in the eyes, he can’t find the words to tell him how badly he’d wish to come back, to fill that space in Sherlock’s life again and stay there for the long term.

Then, making them both jump, John’s phone chimes on the table. He rushes for it, reading out loud.

“‘I can be at the bank in twenty minutes, the other board members are gone. Can you meet me there?’” He looks up at Sherlock. “Alright with you?”

Sherlock stands up, already going for his coat without an answer. John finishes his soup as quickly as possible, grabbing his phone and jacket and rushing downstairs to find Sherlock already waving for a cab. 

They climb in, still not exchanging a word, but John can already feel the excitement of the case growing. He knows Sherlock is probably going to solve it quickly, but John is going to take advantage of this time together. 

They arrive just in time to meet the client as he’s walking out the huge front doors. 

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

“John, please,” John says, shaking the man’s hand. “And you can call him Sherlock.”

“So, the emails?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes. I’ve managed to log on one of their computer sand transfer the emails to mine,” Mark begins to explain as he walks them into the bank. “But I can’t read any of them. They must be encrypted, or they’re using some kind of code.”

Sherlock hums his agreement, going into Mark’s office and aiming for the chair immediately. John waits by the door, looking around the room and taking it all in. That’s one of the first things Sherlock taught him actually, looking for clues in the details. He walks to the bookcase, looking closely at the different pictures of Mark all around the world. He’s just about to ask about what seems to be Nepal, turning around and stopping dead in his tracks. 

Sherlock, still on the chair, seems engrossed in the emails. Just like Mark apparently, considering how closely he’s leaning against Sherlock’s back. John takes a deep breath in, desperate to calm down the part of him already burning low in his abdomen. He’s been in situations as such before, so he’s already learnt how to control his own temper and he is not about to ruin it all even more by being jealous. 

“So you see,” Mark is saying, leaning even closer - if possible. “Right there, this has to mean something, it keeps coming back.”

Sherlock nods in agreement, “This is more difficult than I thought it’d be.”

“Should I take a look?” John offers, standing on the other side of the chair, keeping his distance. 

“See here,” Sherlock replies, pointing to the third line. “This is actually the beginning of the email.”

John is about to take a proper look when a loud noise echoes in the hall. All three of them look at the door, silent.

“I’ll go check that out,” John says, needing a break to regain some composure anyway.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, already looking back at the screen. Mark doesn’t seem to remember he exists at all. John doesn’t linger, going for the door and letting out a deep breath as soon as he’s alone. He needs to stop, now. Shaking it all off, he goes to inspect the different hallways and offices, finding them all empty. He takes an extra minute, checking his phone and admiring some of the paintings on the walls, and only when he feels more relax does he go back inside. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have. 

Too busy laughing together, Sherlock and Mark don’t notice him walking back in. John can’t seem to be able to stop staring, his hand still around the handle, barely breathing. It’s not the laugher or the way Mark is still so very close, no. It’s the way Sherlock is genuinely laughing, something bright in his eyes that makes all of John’s insides ache.

Before he can’t stop himself, he clears his throat, desperate to disrupt the moment. 

Sherlock finds his eyes, laughter dying off slowly. “Oh John, we solved it.”

John tries not to tick on the _we_.

“Sherlock was amazing,” Mark says. 

John gives him his best smile, “So who was it?”

“As I suspected, most of the board members are involved, but now I have everything I need to make them stop.” Mark turns back to look at Sherlock. “All thanks to you, Sherlock.”

John holds back a snort at the obvious flirting, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye like they always used to do, silent jokes only they could understand. But Sherlock is looking back, still staring at the screen, cheeks flushed. 

Throat dry, John tries not to stare at Mark’s hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and the lingering of a smile on both their lips. An overwhelming sensation of intrusion makes all of John scream and ache to get as far as possible from this room. 

“Should we go, then?” John asks, already turning away.

He listens to Sherlock and Mark talking behind him, doing his best not to focus on whatever they are saying. He needs air, and quickly.

“Thank you again,” Mark smiles as soon as they’re out. “I’m glad I sent that email.”

“Good thing you picked up on the code in the first place,” Sherlock replies. 

John is already waving for a cab, _quick._

“What about going out tonight? Maybe dinner?” Mark suddenly asks, and John doesn’t need to turn around to know who he’s asking.

His entire body tenses as he waits for Sherlock’s reply, only to break down when a “Yes” comes out. He shuts everything down at this, locking himself in his own head. He doesn’t need to know where and when and how. He can’t listen to more. He has no right to. Just as he has no right to get angry. It isn’t his place or right to be jealous. Sherlock is a grown man, someone he’s not sure he knows anymore. Who's to say this isn’t the first time he’s been asked out like this. Who’s to say he hasn’t said yes before, too. 

There had been a time when John could have been the one asking. And that time is long gone. 

“Sherlock,” he calls, turning around without meeting his eyes. “I just realised I have… somewhere to be.”

He doesn’t bother trying to find a better lie. Sherlock will know. Probably already does, anyway. 

“I’ll call you about another case later, ok?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, choosing to walk instead of waiting a minute more here for a cab, Mark saying his goodbye as he does.

Sherlock remains silent. 


	6. "I want to come back."

It’s in the earliest hours of the morning, when everybody is either asleep or getting ready for sleep. He’s reading about potential biomarkers for predicting the risk of radiation-induced fibrosis in lungs when he hears it. The familiar tread, weight, leg preference, instep. All of it so easy to deduce - almost too easy. One thing missing, though. One last deduction still catching up to his brain.

Ah _. Drunk. Steps heavier than usual, gait slightly uneven. Very drunk. _

_ Not good. _

_ Not again. _

“John,” he greets him while a tight smile from his chair as soon as he enters the sitting room. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hi,” John smiles, lazy, eyes drooping already. “Just came to say hi.”

He takes a seat in his chair - still, always, his chair - and crosses his feet at the ankle.

“Hi,” Sherlock counters, narrowing his eyes as more deductions fire in:

_ Freshly shaven. Pub. Alone. Nice shirt. Promised himself it’d just be one drink. Walked here. Spilled a quarter of a shot of whiskey on his left sleeve. Hit on and was rejected by one - no, two - women who he had no interest in pulling, anyway. Hasn’t eaten since before work ended; a hastily-finished sandwich on wholewheat bread. Double shift. Hasn’t been sleeping well. Preoccupied with something. _

“So. How was your date?” John interrupts his observations, an edge of accusation in his tone.

“Is that why you’re here?” Sherlock asks, eyebrows crinkling.

“Yes. No. Not really.”

“Well?”

“Just asking. That’s what friends do. They ask things. They take an interest in their friends’ lives. They get invested, even.”

“Do they?”

“Yes,” John breathes out on a slow half-grin.

Silence settles between them, John slouching low in his chair with his soft grin and his legs slipping open. It reminds Sherlock of the infamous stag night. Of  _ Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?  _ and  _ I don’t mind _ and he wants to scream or fight or just bury his head in his arms and hope it all disappears from his remembrance somehow.

“It went well,” he says calmly instead.

“What?”

“The date. Or whatever it is you want to call it. It went well. I think. I’m no expert in these areas. I have no experience on three continents. Barely on one, actually.” Sherlock can feel himself becoming more and more tightly wound, the venom on the tip of his tongue beginning to come out as if of its own volition.

“Has he called?” John bites back.

“What are you doing? What are we doing, John?”

“I want to come back.”

Sherlock is quiet. Not because he’s speechless, but because he’d rather not voice what’s on his mind. He doesn’t want to do this. Not again.

“I want to come home,” John says, bolder this time, tilting his chin up.

“No. You don’t,” Sherlock replies evenly. He wills himself to remain calm.

“Yes. I do.”

“You’re just saying that now because of… You’re just saying it.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No,” John emphasises. “No, I’m really not.”

Sherlock steeples his hands under his jaw and leans his head back in contemplation. How best to deal with a drunk John Watson? He should know by now and yet, he’s clueless. As much as he can read and manipulate people and situations, it becomes more difficult the closer one is, especially when that person happens to be inebriated. The last time had been, well, a disaster from which they’ve not yet even recovered. 

He sees this going one of two ways, and he’s not keen on either of them, really.

“I think you’d better go,” he says politely, his only aim to tactfully minimise the potential damage that could be done. 

John looks affronted, as though he’s been physically assaulted.

Sherlock stands, picks up his violin from the desk. The bow hovers above the strings before he decides. 

He turns around, pointing the bow at John to punctuate the point. “You’ve been drinking. Not just tonight, but, God knows, tonight you’ve been drinking  _ a lot.  _ No, not just tonight, almost every night. And we’re not talking a Mediterranean glass with dinner. More than that. Much more. Much,  _ much  _ more. Why is that, do you suppose?” Sherlock knows he’s crossing a line, has already crossed it, in fact, but he can’t seem to stop. “Is it grief? Loneliness? Well, a good solution would be to come back here, I’ll give you that, but don’t you think it’s quite convenient for you to only realise this when you’re not in your right mind?” What he doesn’t add is,  _ and when you know I’ve just been on a date with somebody else.  _

John sits back, too stunned to react. 

Sherlock turns around, lifting his bow once again, and begins to play. 

He hears John stand behind him and shuffle to the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water. Sherlock keeps playing. 

“I’m. I’m sorry,” John says softly. “I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have come. It was just a stupid impulse. I’m. Just used to this place, I guess. It was home for a long time. But you’re right, I’m just lonely and drunk and pathetic.”

Sherlock turns at that, surprised by how close John is. When did he get that close? “I never said you were pathetic. Did I use the word ‘pathetic’? I can’t recall.”

John looks down at the floor between them, his breathing coming out in short puffs and his left hand clenching and unclenching in a way that is so heartbreakingly familiar to Sherlock. 

“John,” he says quietly. “It’s all fine.”

“Yes,” John huffs out. “Thank you.”

Sherlock says nothing, just sits down in his chair on a sigh.

John turns for the door, losing his balance slightly. Sherlock maintains his resolve. 

They say nothing further as John leaves, closing the door lightly behind him. 

Sherlock exhales, releasing the tension of the past half an hour. He is glad that the interaction ended with their relationship still relatively intact.

It’s only when Sherlock hears a dull thud coming from the top of the stairs that he realises he let his guard down too soon. 

He rushes out the door to find John lying on the stairs, swearing a colourful array under his breath.

“John! Are you alright?” he rushes over to assess the damage.

“I’m fi— ah!” John exclaims as he sits up, hand flying to his head.

“Easy,” Sherlock admonishes, helping him up gently.

John is mere centimetres from his face, the smell of whiskey on his breath and his eyes hooded and dilated.

Sherlock knows what he has to do.


	7. “It’s 3 in the morning.”

“I’ll just. I’m gonna…” John says, lifting himself clumsily off the stairs with a grunt.

“John, you’re—”

“Sorry to have bothered…” John mumbles off as he steadies himself, a feat he is very obviously failing to achieve.

“Don’t be silly, let me s—” Sherlock insists, trying to get him to stay still so that he can see if there’s any damage anywhere.

“Goodbye, I’ll see myself ou—”

“Wait a minute!” he snaps.

John freezes where he stands, one step below Sherlock.

He looks like a hopeless, lost child and it tugs at Sherlock’s heartstrings more than he would ever dare admit, even to himself.

“It’s three in the morning, you’re drunk and you’ve just hurt yourself. I’m not letting you leave this way. Don’t be ridiculous. You can stay here tonight, your old room is clean and ready,” Sherlock says plainly, calmly, evening his breaths.

“I’ll be fi—”

“Just. Don’t argue,” Sherlock says, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

They then look at each other for long moments, their stubborn natures going head to head, before John finally relents with a hand wave while he climbs the stairs once more, graceless and slow.

He goes into the kitchen and pours another glass of water.

Sherlock leans against the doorframe, assessing.

“Why did you come here, John?” he asks, not unkindly.

John leans back against the counter, glass of water slack in his hand. He takes a moment, seeming to gather himself. “I don’t know,” he answers, soft.

“I see,” Sherlock replies, standing upright again and going to sit down in his chair with his research article and his thoughts and himself.

John follows a few seconds after, taking his place opposite Sherlock in his own chair once again.

“Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“That I came? That I come here?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, taking a moment to calculate what the right answer could be. 

He opts for honesty in the face of his uncertainty. “No. Not really. Not that much.”

The early morning outside is still yet bubbling somehow, an anticipation of what’s to come, of the sun to rise and the day to start and for life to commence on the verge of - of what, he can not tell. Of hope? Of whatever the opposite of hope is? Certainty that hope will be forever demolished? At least that way, there’s resolution.

“I just wonder…”

Sherlock leans in. “Yes?”

“I just wonder how it’s basically Christmas already.”

“John,” Sherlock smiles, fond, warm, a tinge of something like hope lost igniting within him. “You’re drunk. Maybe you should go to bed.”

“I don’t want to,” John complains, a petulant preteen in a middle-aged man’s body.

“Alright. What do you want to do, then?”

“Play for me?” John asks tenderly, like so many times before.

“Certainly,” Sherlock says, standing and picking up his violin and bow once again. “What would you like to hear?”

“You know,” John replies, leaning back in his chair and letting his eyes fall shut.

Sherlock plays his way through John’s favourites, the ones he memorised the very second he could garner a discernible reaction from his friend in terms of his preferences. 

While he plays, he faces the window and thinks about the man sitting behind him.

He thinks about how he only came here because he is drunk and jealous that Sherlock made a new friend in Mark. How, really, he isn’t any good otherwise.

He thinks about Mark, too, and how easy it had been. To get lost in somebody with whom he doesn’t have a shared history, full of rivers of tragedy and loss and, unfortunately, love. Mark had been polite and kind and, most importantly, he’d been someone  _ new.  _ How Sherlock had forgotten what it was like to be around somebody who didn’t know every single flaw and mistake. Somebody who didn’t know that he had jumped from Bart’s rooftop and spent the next two years being utterly miserable and alone. Somebody whose wife hadn’t died in his place. Somebody who didn’t know about his sister and his messed up family and his even more messed up trauma. Somebody who wasn’t John.

At the same time, that had been the thing he struggled to get around. Of course,  _ of course _ , he would have rather been there with John, talking about funny cases over wine and pasta. He would have given anything in the world, as much as he enjoyed the novelty of it. Every time Mark made a joke, he thought about a similar joke he shared with John. When Mark ordered the fettuccine alfredo, he thought about how John once got sick on the same dish and could never bear to stomach it again. When Mark touched his lower back to guide him into the taxi, he thought about the time he had taught John how to dance and John had held him there and how, for days afterward, he could almost feel the ghost of his touch, warm and secret and treasured. When Mark almost kissed him, he thought about all the times he could have kissed John - on the bottom of the stairs, at a crime scene, sitting across from each other with their chairs pulled close. When he turned away from Mark’s kiss, he thought about every time he had turned away from John. About  _ married to my work  _ and  _ alone protects me _ . About how emphatically regretful he is and remains to be of all of it.

The music comes to its natural end and, as Sherlock turns around, he knows already that John is asleep. He packs his violin away and goes to bed. He knows none of this will mean anything in the morning.


	8. "Come closer."

John wakes up uncertain of where he is. His head is spinning and his whole body aching. Hangover, that much he knows for sure. It’s only when he notices the crack in the ceiling that he realises he knows this bed, these walls and the familiar sounds coming from outside. With the light being too bright, he closes back his eyes and for just a moment, he dares to imagine this is still his bedroom, still his home. He falls deep into the fantasy. Sherlock is waiting for him downstairs. They’ve just solved a five day case and crashed into bed as soon as they got back during the night. They are probably going to spend a lazy day at home, doing absolutely nothing. Maybe he’s even going to try and tell Sherlock about how he’d like to sleep in his bed tonight. Just maybe.

The noise of something breaking downstairs brings him back to reality, his head spinning even more with the realisation of how he truly came to wake up in his old bed. He vaguely recalls the first few drinks, definitely not the last ones. He’s not sure how he managed to get to Baker Street, and a sharp pain in his skull reminds him why he hasn’t gone back to his own flat. He massages the wound softly, memories of Sherlock taking care of him in his drunken state coming back one by one. 

_Fuck_. How could he have done this again?

He had come so close to messing it all up for good last time, and here he is again. At least he isn’t waking up on his living room floor, so surely it mustn't have been as bad at last time. Right? 

John closes his eyes again, trying to remember exactly the events of the night before. Violin, there was some violin. He fell asleep in his chair, woke up in the middle of the night, automatically went up to his old bed. And before that? Talking, yes, some talking. He sighs. He already knows he probably brought up Mark, that’s the whole reason he was drinking in the first place. Did he ask personal questions? Did Sherlock got angry? 

Well, there is no need to hide here in any case. He only has to go downstairs, apologise for what it’s worth now, and leave Sherlock in peace. Oh, and also stop drinking every bloody day. Refusing to dwell on that now, he gets to his feet as slowly as he can, not wishing for Sherlock to have to fetch him from the floor. The first few steps are taking all the energy out of him, but he manages to get down the stairs without falling. And then, the kitchen, bracing himself for whatever might happen in there.

He’s surprised to find Sherlock busy making breakfast only to realise he must have gotten into the habit of doing so now, considering he lives alone. 

He sits down quickly, the weight of the time he’s been gone adding to the hangover. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock says, still with his back turned, voice low and John thanks him silently.

“Sorry about last night,” John replies, glad he doesn’t have to face Sherlock as he says so. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“You did,” Sherlock points out.

John doesn’t try to read the tone of his voice, not sure he wants to know anyway.

“I made toast,” Sherlock announces, finally turning around. “You should also drink your water.”

John reaches for the full glass in front of him, drinking it all quickly. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be angry, refilling his glass as soon as John sets it down again. John watches silently, picking at his toast without feeling like eating anything. No need to upset Sherlock even more.

“Thank you,” he says, looking down at his plate.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, coming around the table and John can’t help but jump in surprise when he sits next to him and cups his face with both hands. 

“How’s your head?”

Stunned to silence again, John can’t move. He tries not to focus too much on the warm hands around his cheeks, nor the closeness of Sherlock’s upper body. He only has to look up to catch Sherlock’s eyes examining his head.

“Come closer,” Sherlock says, almost too quietly.

John can only lean in a little more, bending his head to give Sherlock a better look. He takes advantage of this new position to close his eyes. Sherlock’s hands are getting even warmer, or maybe it’s just John’s body reacting to the prolonged touch. In any case, John finds himself wishing Sherlock would never take them off of him. 

“It seems perfectly alright,” Sherlock finally asserts, pulling away just enough for John to straighten back up. “Are you feeling nauseous or dizzy?”

John shakes his head, still not sure if he can trust his voice. Sherlock is still so very close, hands still in place, and there isn’t much John can do besides stare into his eyes. It seems that neither of them are breathing, but John couldn’t care less. In all the months he’s been gone, this is the closest he has come to feeling like home. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, seeing dozens of possibilities there and feeling the excitement rushing through his veins. Unable to stop himself, he glances down at Sherlock’s lips, full and tempting. He licks his own, the smallest of movements, and Sherlock pulls away immediately.

John, once again too stunned to react, watches as he stands up and goes back to the sink. The water running shakes off John’s stillness and he gets to his feet, too. For a moment, he considers walking to Sherlock and being the one this time to cup his face and force him to look back at him. But Sherlock’s body is tensed, and John suddenly realises how close he came to ruining it all once and for all. Of course Sherlock pulled away. That’s the only way he has to make John understand, to make him realise he doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want him drunk in the middle of the night, nor hungover the next morning. 

For God’s sake, he doesn’t even want him to come back to Baker Street. Sherlock had always reminded him that 221B was still his home, but now that he asked to come back - drunkenly asked, yes, but asked nonetheless - Sherlock didn’t seem to agree with the idea at all. In fact, he seems to have found other ways to spend his time now, other people to share it with over dinner and wine. 

Better get used to the idea that this is now his life, with no home, with no best friend, with no chance. 

“I should get going,” John says, feeling sick now. “Sorry again and thank you for letting me stay here.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply until John is opening the door, “So that’s it then?” 

“What else could there be?” John replies, closing the door behind him, heart sinking inside his chest.


	9. "I can't do this anymore."

As soon as the door downstairs slams shut, Sherlock lets out a sigh. Of relief, he thinks. That or the moment that comes with finally being able to let the facade down. It used to be easy to be himself around John. They’d only been living together for a short while before he could let down all his defenses (well, the ones that were known to him at that point, anyhow) and just be. Have breakfast and watch TV and do terrible experiments and not feel as though he had to compensate for or hide something. John knew him,  _ really  _ knew him. He proved it time and again, the last time being before St Bart’s. Now, though, prolonged interaction begins to exhaust him because he knows he’s back to hiding. The big things, the little things. He doesn’t feel  _ seen  _ in the way that matters anymore. Not by John. 

And he isn’t upset with John. Not per se. He’s just tired. Exhausted, really. Of the dance they’ve been in for the past couple of years now. He leads, John leads, but nobody wins. Not really. It’s just one of them hurting the other in an infinite loop and he wants to tear his hair out if only to make it stop for a little while.

So, yes, he isn’t upset with John. He’s more upset with himself. For giving John this big of a space within his life. Within his heart. 

He would do - and has done - anything for him and yet, here he is, alone and miserable. 

Something needs to change. 

He can’t go on dates with beautiful men and think about John the entire time. He can’t fall asleep every night with John’s name on his lips. He can’t pleasure himself to thoughts only of John.

He needs a clean break, a fresh start. A new beginning.

Before he even stands up from the kitchen table, he knows what he needs to do.

He pulls out his phone and starts looking for plane tickets. He wants something warm. Something that emphatically isn’t this place. Frustrated when he can’t find what he’s looking for, he throws his phone on the table and goes to the desk to retrieve his laptop.

As he’s searching, he hears a noise coming from the direction of John’s -  _ NO! _ , the other - chair. It’s a testament to how perturbed he is that it takes him a full half a split second before he realises that it’s John’s cellphone. He must have left it here. That… complicates things a little bit.

He calculates that it will take John seven minutes and fourteen seconds to notice. Give or take a few seconds for a foggy hangover brain. He left three minutes and twenty one seconds ago. It will then take him approximately the same amount of time to come back.

Sherlock waits. He steeples his hands under his jaw lightly and stands by the window.

Like clockwork (literally), he rounds the corner at the exact anticipated time, looking haggard and frustrated.

John.

Sherlock watches him from the window, the fondness that has built up over years in the pit of his heart slowly unraveling to reveal something else entirely. What, he doesn’t know. But he does intend to find out, with enough time away. A vacation. Or something more, perhaps. A longer-term commitment where he needn’t be bothered by the distraction that plagues his every waking - and sleeping - moment.

John takes longer than usual to climb the stairs, but Sherlock can’t blame him for dragging his feet. If he wasn’t the one waiting, he’d also be taking his time. Things weren’t terrible last night, but the awkwardness that keeps lurking between them will surely only increase now. 

“Hi, forgot my—” John begins as he enters, looking down. 

“Yes, on the chair,” Sherlock waves a hand without turning around. 

“Right. Well. Thanks.”

They say nothing, but Sherlock can hear that John isn’t making a move for his phone  _ or _ the door. 

“Sherlock,” John begins. “I… could you look at me a second?”

“Yes,” he turns around to face John, but neither one of them can look the other in the eye. 

“I really am sorry. For last night. For… yeah, for last night.”

Sherlock nods once. “It’s finished now.”

“Right. Well, I just… right.”

“Was there anything else?” Sherlock knows he’s being cold, and perhaps more than a little bit cruel, given the circumstances, but he can’t find it in himself to stop. It isn’t easy for him to find balance. He’s either all in or all out.

“Nope. I’ll see myself out,” John says, making no move despite his words.

He hates every second of this interaction with every fibre of his being. 

“I’m going away. For a little bit,” he blurts out suddenly, steering the conversation with blind panic at this point.

“When?”

“Soon.”

“How long?”

“Not sure.” The conversation is steering in a direction that’s awfully reminiscent of one they’ve had before, long ago, when it hurt less because he’d already lost it all. That, and he had a seven percent solution to help him through it (something he itches for now more than anything).

“Why?” John asks simply, quietly. 

“What difference does it make?” Sherlock snaps. He doesn’t mean to, but the dance is over, at least for him. He wants to sit this one out. “I can’t do this anymore,” he adds, gentler. 

“I see. Well. Have a good trip.”

Sherlock smiles his melancholy smile and looks at the floor.

John leaves shortly after, without another word. It’s as good a goodbye as he’s ever heard. 


	10. "But what if it doesn't work?"

After much fruitless searching and self-negotiation, Sherlock knows what he has to do, but he doesn’t like it. Sometimes, there’s only one person who can help and, most of the time, it’s the person he leasts want to go to for help in the world. It’s kind of like selling his soul to the devil every time he asks for a favour, knowing there will be an unsavoury exchange made in future.

He opens the door to Mycroft’s office with care, not wanting to make himself known, even though he inevitably has to.

“Sherlock. Nice to see you,” Mycroft is practically dripping with acid and scorn. He drops his pen and gives Sherlock his full attention, even though Sherlock can sense the cogs turning in about fifteen different areas. He’s probably planning a war as they speak, the puffed up bastard.

“Mycroft. Good to see you’re smarmy as ever. I like that about you. Always reliable,” Sherlock retorts.

“What can I do for you?” Mycroft ignores Sherlock’s comments in favour of speeding up the conversation.

“Can’t a little brother merely want to visit his older brother?”

“Is this charade strictly necessary?” Mycroft leans back in his chair, the picture of angelic patience.

“I need a favour.”

“Obviously.”

“A plane ticket. Tonight.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in something like surprise, but it’s gone a second later, replaced by his usual cool.

“I’m surprised it took you this long,” he says simply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock bites back.

“I think we both know what it means. Let’s not drag this out further than needed.” He crosses his arms, punctuating his point, and Sherlock wants to wipe the smug look right off his thin lips.

“Will you do it or not?” Sherlock huffs out impatiently. He didn’t come here for a match _or_ a chat.

“Where?” Mycroft sighs, relenting as Sherlock knew he would.

“South Africa. The coast. I need to be somewhere warm. Preferably with an ocean view, but that’s negotiable, I suppose,” Sherlock says, making the final decision right in that moment.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows again, but it lasts shorter this time.

“Tonight. Eight pm. Will you be ready?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, turning for the door before the last consonant is even out.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft halts him in his steps.

He doesn’t turn around, merely waits for the parting blow.

“What if it doesn’t work?” comes the unusually subdued question.

Sherlock pauses a moment, considering, before fleeing.

* * *

Once home, he takes out his luggage bag and places it on the bed. He folds his trousers and shirts and pants and socks, neatly, methodically, and places them inside. He packs his toiletries in a designer toiletry bag and zips it up with precision. He’s a surgeon at work, excising the tumour called love with exact motions.

At first he feels calm, peaceful in his decision. Then, he feels numb. Finally, he feels nothing at all.

He spends a moment hesitating over whether or not to take an old sleeping shirt that used to be John’s, but ultimately decides to leave it behind, in the back of his cupboard with the rest of his disguises and hoarded bric-a-brac. He shuts the door with a careful _click_.

* * *

One of Mycroft’s minions pulls up outside exactly as he steps out the front door with his luggage. He has just said goodbye to a semi-hysterical Mrs Hudson (“You’ll call, won’t you dear?”) and fired off a quick text to Lestrade.

He looks around the street one last time before pocketing his phone and climbing inside the back of the car.

* * *

His plane ride is relatively peaceful and baby-free. He doesn’t watch any of the movies (boring!), nor does he manage to get any sleep (boring!), but he does deduce all of the air hostesses and succeeds in making one cry when she learns of her boyfriend’s infidelity (boring!). Under eleven hours later, he’s getting off the plane at King Shaka International Airport, and he’s hit by the humidity in the air. Going from near-snow to 32 degrees is a bit of a shock to the system. He removes his coat and rolls up his shirtsleeves, beads of sweat already pooling at his temples. He might’ve reconsidered the coat, now that he thinks about it.

As he walks through passport control, he’s greeted by friendly faces and warm smiles. He thinks about how he couldn’t be further from home right now, and how grateful he is for that fact.

He hopes that this is the fresh start he so desperately needs. He hopes he can really make a clean break this time. He hopes he gets what he wanted by coming here. Above all, he hopes he can stop thinking about the reason he came.

After unpacking, he looks around his airbnb. Clean, tidy and modern. He could live here.

He opens every window and sliding door that he can, stepping out onto the balcony that overlooks the bushy landscape. The hot, thick air hits him in waves. He stands there for long moments, breathing deeply, allowing the sun to beat down on his skin through the wooden slats sheltering the area.

He looks towards the horizon, where he sees the road and, further, the ocean.

He wonders how he ever came to be here, alone, fifteen days before Christmas.

He wonders how he allowed his life to spin out of his control. How he essentially gave the reigns to somebody else and watched as they crashed into building after building, not a care in the world.

Most of all, he wonders what he’s going to do to finally let it all go.


	11. “I should have told you all this a long time ago.“

Sherlock,

I should start by saying this isn’t the first letter I’ve written you, but I intend to give this one. Or least try. That’s not my strongest suit: trying. Would you believe me if I told you that I came twice to Baker Street, envelope in hand, but never managed to drop it off? I think Mrs Hudson saw me once, probably wondered why I wasn’t ringing the bell or simply going in. But I’m thinking she might have figured it out somehow because she never asked me to come in. Never forced me to go up those stairs and give you the damn letter once and for all.

Even if her strategy has now changed, I won’t be giving you this letter near Baker Street this time. You left. You put as much distance as you could between you and me, and left. The thing is, I am not blaming you. In fact, I understand why you did this more and more. I wouldn’t have wanted to stay around me either. I should apologize, should tell you how sorry I am for how I’ve behaved and all that I’ve said and done, but it feels as if I’ve already done so many times without ever really succeeding. I don’t want this letter to be about apologies. 

I want this letter to be about all that I haven’t said yet. 

I haven’t told you how beautiful you are. I noticed right away, that very first time I looked at you. You were so mysterious, from the very start, looking at me as if I were the only person in the room. I couldn’t look away either, you know. Even if I had wanted to. And that’s the thing; I didn’t. Without knowing your name yet, I wanted to stay the only focus of your studying gaze. You were - still are - so beautiful that you felt impossible for weeks after I moved in.

I haven’t told you about the hours I spent wondering what was happening inside your head. Was I imagining the stares? Was I reading too much into your smiles? Was it all just what I wanted to see? Were you thinking about me constantly, too? Were you wondering what I was thinking? Or did you read it all on me already and just didn’t say so? Silently telling me it would never happen? 

I still wonder about most of this. 

I still can’t bring myself to ask.

I haven’t told you about this ache that takes over me whenever you’re close. On crime scenes, in cabs or restaurants, at home or in the middle of the bloody street. I ache to touch you. To link your fingers with mine, to thread my hand into your hair, to kiss the skin of your neck. And to kiss you, Sherlock. How often I wish I could kiss you. Some days, it was all I could think about. Getting up from my chair and sealing our lips. Whispering against your mouth how amazing you are. Playing with your lower lip to shut you up in front of the tv. Waking you up, slowly, softly, in our bed, long kisses turning into much more.

I haven’t told you about the life I imagined for us. About our home, changing with the years we spend there, growing old together. About the cases, chases and stake outs until finally it’s time for the last one. About the search for a new home, by the sea, where no one can bother us. About your grey hair in my fingers and your smile as we walk hand in hand. About the dogs (yes, plural) and the bees you insist we need to keep. About the long mornings spent in bed, and the afternoons with old friends. About the whispers in the dark, memories of a life we shared, filled with laughters, tears, fights and make-ups. 

I haven’t told you how many times I came close to telling you I love you. It feels as if the words were always stuck in my throat, ready to come out at the first occasion. And they almost did, so many times. Some days I told myself I could do this forever, if it meant keeping you by my side. I could, after all, live a lie, even this huge, breathtaking one. You were there and so was I, orbiting around you. 

I should have told you all this a long time ago.  
That’s all I ever wanted, all I still want. 

But not like this. I can’t keep it all to myself anymore. I tried, oh I tried. You saw how I failed, showing up drunk on your doorstep, even then not brave enough to tell you. You have every right to hate me, you know. To resent me for what I did to you. I still can’t understand it myself, can’t look at a glass of scotch without wanting to drink it. I have a problem, Sherlock. One only you can fix if I ever could ask you, properly, not with half sentences and disguised sentiment. 

Your violin. Our chairs. Home. You.

That’s all I need. All that could make me resist just one last drink. All that could make it alright again. 

But that’s gone. Isn’t it?

Out of reach. No longer an option, if it ever were. You are gone over there, lost on another continent. And I am still in a too-cold London, wondering what else I still have to look forward to. I did this, from start to end. I am the one to blame for our downfall. I need to accept that simple and yet shattering fact. 

I drove you away. There isn’t anything left to do. You are over there. Over there and I...

Fuck, what have I left to lose? Why am I still here? I just need to go and tell you, don’t I? No need for another bloody letter, no need to keep it a secret anymore. We are already on the verge of breaking apart, one more confession can’t do more damage. 

I need go, now, I need to


	12. “I always knew, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as a little pre-Christmas treat, we've decided to reveal all the dialogue prompts/chapter names for you guys to have in advance if you'd like to theorise about what happens next... [Click here](http://xtiin.tumblr.com/post/181054556793/so-pauline-beenchantd-and-i-decided-that-as-a-lil) to see them!

John,

I’m never going to show you this letter. I’ll probably burn it right after I write it, but I have to get this down, out, off of me. This letter is nothing more than my catharsis and my final adieu.

A long time ago, two lost souls met each other. They eased each other’s journeys and made life a little bit kinder on the other. Along the way, though, one of these people fell in love. They didn’t mean to - quite the opposite, in fact - but they fell hard, the only way they know how, and they were never able to pick themselves back up.

I loved you. I love you. More than I have any right to, surely.

I felt it very early on, and figured it out not too long after. I made you believe that I didn’t feel things that way and, God, how I wish that were true. How I wish I didn’t long for you like the man in the desert for an oasis. How I wish I could wake up in the morning and have another thought that isn’t you, you, _you_. How I wish I could lean in when a charming man goes to kiss me without the primitive part of my brain convincing me that, if I kiss him back, I’m betraying you and the fake relationship I’ve built up in my mind.

You see, it was fake. I always knew, you know. That you didn’t love me back. How could you? You had girlfriends and then Mary and your life. And I’m the reason that’s all gone. I’m so terribly sorry for all of it and I know you are, too.

I don’t blame you for it, not really. I blame myself every single day for allowing things to become so horribly tangled. For entangling myself in your life, and yours in mine.

We were two lost souls, once, but we aren’t that any more. Now we’re men, found by each other, and lost _to_ each other.

I hope you don’t fault me for having to leave so suddenly, but I had to remove myself with a sense of finality before I allowed this thing to swallow me whole, more than it already has.

It seems I’m not the man I used to be. I can no longer stand idly by and play the violin while you dance your first dance with another woman. I can’t nail myself to the cross like that anymore. This, too, terrifies me. If I’m not living for you, who am I living for? I became so used to going through the motions of each day because I had somebody to rely on me. Or so I thought. In my twisted mind, I came to believe you needed me, and that I’d always be available to you. That has to come to an end.

Yes, I’ll always be there for you, and I’ll always be in your life, even in a small way, but I can no longer be the man that I was for you. Especially because you never asked me to be. I inserted myself into your life in such a pivotal way without your consent, let alone your request. I made up a fiction in my head where I was crucial in some way; that, without me, you’d still be or return to being the same lost soul I came to know all those years ago.

You’ve grown tremendously over the years and I don’t think I flatter myself for stating the part I’ve played in it. I just don’t think I should continue to overstate it and, in so doing, overstay my welcome.

It’s time to let go of the illusion that I’m an ingredient essential to your happiness or well-being. It may have been slightly true in times past, but we’ve - _you’ve_ \- grown beyond that. Beyond me.

And that’s okay - more than okay, in fact. My greatest joy in life is getting to see you experience happiness and fulfilment, even if that excludes me. I’ve done it before, and I will continue to do it.

When you showed up on my doorstep, drunk and sentimental again, I knew I couldn’t continue the way we have been anymore. I hate having half of you and half of me meeting up in the middle to make half a relationship. I hate that you can only really want me when you’re drunk or in need of a danger fix. That, or jealous.

I tried, with Mark, to have a nice time. To go out on a date and learn what it is to have somebody take an active interest in you (when sober!). I failed. Mark was kind and attentive and pleasant enough, but he displayed one glaring fault - the one they all display, really - he wasn’t you. Nobody is ever you, and that is their downfall.

No more.

Now that I’ve learnt how to love (thanks, in no small part to you - something I would like to thank and simultaneously blame you for), I want to explore it. I want to be free to love and lose and love all over again. I want, for the first time, what other people have. What _ordinary, boring_ people are always going on about and committing crimes over. I want dinner and a movie (barring, of course, anything remotely similar to those James Bond films you were always trying to force me into). I want kisses and hand-holding and, yes, even sex. All the things I thought to hold myself above for all these years.

I want to begin life, even at my age, even with my inexperience. I want to leap and for somebody to catch me. I want to learn what it is to touch and be touched, not out of obligation, but out of _desire_. Sheer, carnal desire.

I want to write poetry, like the terrible ones you used to email to your numerous girlfriends. I want to receive poetry and laugh about it and tear it up and regret it and tape the pieces back together again.

I want to move on.

I think we should state what we were and have been to each other and move on.

I _need_ to move on.

I hope you’ll understand and hold none of this against me.

With boundless gratitude and a fond farewell,

Sherlock Holmes


	13. "Oh no."

He has spent the most relaxing three days in the African summer sun. Physically, he feels great. He has been to the beach twice already and has taken long walks around the estate his airbnb is in. There has been an abundance of insects and harmless creatures to observe and study, and he even had the good fortune of coming across various types of indigenous aloe to break apart and investigate.

Emotionally, he’s getting there. He knows it won’t be an overnight process, and so he isn’t expecting it to be. Much like he learnt in his one and only rehab stint, he has to take it one day at a time, and learn to release the past in increments that are accessible to him. Repressing it all in one go - as he has found recently - doesn’t help anything. Deleting people and places and incidents always seem to come back to bite him in the arse.

So he does what he has grasped from his limited research into psychology (seeing Ella briefly included) - he feels, tries to deal with it, and hopes to heal. One day at a time.

He’s taken to keeping a journal with thoughts and moods and drawings and letters in them. He has written only one letter to John thus far, but a freeing one nonetheless. 

He enjoys the evening ritual he has created around this outpouring of emotion onto paper. He sits with his after-dinner coffee on the balcony and puts the pen to paper, allowing whatever to come out, unhindered.

When he’s done, he plans the following day, thinking only about what he might enjoy doing, no restrictions.

He doesn’t think about a seven percent solution.

He doesn’t think about going back home.

He definitely doesn’t think about John.

It’s on one such evening that he’s drawing a very intricate sketch of a beehive on one page of his notebook, steaming coffee in front of him, and the doorbell rings.

He abandons his sketch and makes his way through the little flat to the door.

He opens the door.

He closes the door again.

Braces himself.

Opens it again.

“Oh no,” is what comes out of his mouth.

John looks defeated at that. “Can I come in?” he asks anyway, ever the soldier.

Sherlock notices that he has left his luggage somewhere (discernible marks where his roller bag hit his trousers on the back). “Where’s your bag?” he blurts out.

“It’s… look, do you mind if I come in? Just for a bit?”

It’s beyond awkward. It’s embarrassing. That’s the only way he knows how to describe it. He stands aside to let John in.

“Nice place,” John remarks of the flat.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock sighs under his breath in response. That meddling, self-satisfied nitwit.

“What?” 

“Nevermind. What can I do for you?”

“Seriously?”

“Well,” he gestures vaguely between the two of them.

“I’m. Well. I had a whole speech planned out and everything but, now that I’m here, it seems kind of ridiculous.”

“What kind of speech?” Sherlock asks.

“R— uh. Let me go get my bag. It’s in the car. Rental,” John says by way of explanation.

He leaves Sherlock to his thoughts. He doesn’t move from where he’s standing, near the entrance, until John comes back with his luggage. What he intends to do with it, Sherlock doesn’t know.

“Mind if I just…” John starts to ask, leaving the bag by the door, up against the wall, as if to disguise the elephant in the room: this one item that is a statement, a question and a bit of a presumptuous and selfish sentiment.

“Well,” Sherlock says, waving a hand around the airbnb, as if to show John around. 

All that’s there to offer is a small kitchen area semi closed off with a countertop and some bar stools, a small TV room with a plush, L-shaped couch and the tiny entryway that they’re currently taking up far too much space in.

It’s not much, and it’s not home. But Sherlock has found some peace here. Sort of.

“Nice,” John repeats his earlier platitude.

“So you said,” Sherlock can’t help but snark.

They stand for a while, facing each other, until Sherlock motions for the couch. They sit as far from each other as humanly possible, each occupying the end seats next to the armrests.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asks softly, not unkind.

“Why are you?” John fires back, rubbing a hand over his face.

Sherlock looks John up and down, assessing. “I needed a minute,” he says simply.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I was trying to,” Sherlock says, a hint of accusation in his tone.

“I… God, this is bloody awkward, isn’t it?” John grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Quite,” Sherlock says softly, fondly, his eyes lighting up and wrinkling at the corners.

“I find I just don’t know quite what to say,” John says, looking down between them.

“It’s alright. I don’t  _ have  _ anything to say. Well, I do. Kind of. But I wrote it down so I’d never really have to say it.”

“Can I read it?”

“No.”

John looks taken aback. 

“It’s…” Sherlock softens his tone. “Sort of private. I never intended for anybody to read it. That’s why I was able to write it.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. He feels as though his legs are too big for his body. His hands are sweating.

“You okay?” John asks, concern written all over his soft blue eyes.

“Fine, I just. Give me… I’ll be back.” 

Sherlock stands up and goes into the ensuite in his bedroom. He splashes his face with cold water and looks himself in the mirror, hoping to somehow coerce himself to pull it together and face things for once in his miserable life.

All he sees in his reflection is a scared little boy, the same one he has tried all these years to shake off and subdue. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, breathing deeply and trying desperately to remember the calm that he felt before John rang the doorbell.

Before he can decide whether or not he’s ready to, he opens the door and rejoins John in the TV room.

“Would you like to stay?” he asks awkwardly, not yet sitting.

“I. I’d like that, thanks.”

“Alright. You can take my bed.”

“Don’t be silly, I won’t take your bed.”

“Well, we can’t  _ both  _ sleep there,” Sherlock insists.

“I never. That’s not what I meant,” John seems embarrassed. Why should he be embarrassed? “I meant I’ll take the couch. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Right. There’s fresh linen in the drawer there. I’ll, uh. Leave you to it.” He turns on his heel and retreats to his bedroom before his hysteria gets the better of him.

“Goodnight, then,” he hears John choke out, but his door is already closed.


	14. "Focus on my breathing. It'll be alright."

John turns to his side, the small duvet falling to the floor. He doesn’t try to reach for it; it’s too hot anyway. And it’s not as if he was near to falling asleep. Although coming here had felt like the brightest idea three days ago, he isn’t sure if it still is now. The ten hour flight had allowed him to imagine lots of scenarios, all of them involving kissing at some point. And the speech, of course. The words he had played inside his head over and over again, a mixture of what he wrote plus some ideas that had seemed pretty great at the time. 

But getting a door slammed in his face had cleared out his ideas of all fantasies and words entirely. And now he felt like the most complete idiot, travelling to an entire other continent to open his heart. He should have known it would end up like this. One look at Sherlock, and he had lost all of his nerve. Telling him everything had seemed so logical, he had nothing left to lose after all. Their friendship was hanging by a loose thread so, really, confessing his feelings couldn’t do more damage. And yet, it now feels impossible.

Sighing, John gets to his feet, padding to the small kitchen to get a glass of water. Keeping the lights off, he searches the cupboard for a glass, hitting his foot against a sharp angle and cursing out loud. He’s still jumping in place when sudden brightness forces his eyes closed, cursing again.

“John? Is everything alright?”

John nods, breathing out loudly and peering st Sherlock in the doorway. “Yes, yes. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Sherlock replies, sounding tired, and John takes a proper look at him. 

He’s still dressed, his shirt hanging out of his trousers and traces of his pillow on his cheek. Lying in bed fully awake then, just like him. John forgets entirely about his hurt toes and asks, 

“Do you want some water?”

Sherlock stares at him for a long second, something strange in his eyes, and John finds himself turning his back to him. Suddenly very much aware of his own state of undress, his old pair of boxers feeling much shorter than usual, he’s glad to have a way to hide his embarrassment. 

“The sofa is not comfortable,” Sherlock finally replies, not what John had expected at all.

“No, no, it’s fine.”

He hears Sherlock moving around behind him as he pours himself a full glass. He drinks his water faster than planned, choking on it. Great, just what he needed. He holds on to the counter coughing and coughing, and then some more when Sherlock’s hand suddenly appears on his shoulder.

“Deep breaths,” he murmurs, voice too quiet and yet echoing inside John’s head. “Deep breaths.”

John fails miserably, coughing even more when he tries to reply. He can feel himself going red with the lack of air. Sherlock pulls him towards him, taking both of his hands and placing them on his chest. John can only stare, and stare some more.

“Just focus on my breathing,” Sherlock says, eyes fixed on him. “It’ll be alright.”

John can’t do anything else but listen, looking at his hands on Sherlock’s torso, raising with each new inhale. He’s not sure how long it takes him to regain some control over his own lungs, the two of them barely a feet apart. Memories of the feeling of Sherlock’s hair between his fingers just a few days before come back to him then, making it impossible to move away. 

“Better?” Sherlock asks, his voice still a whisper.

John nods, not trusting himself to reply just yet. Sherlock’s hands are warm in his, and he finds himself hoping he could be coughing a bit more, maybe all night even. But Sherlock is letting go of him, taking a step back. John locks eyes with him again, this time not searching for an escape route. 

“Thank you.”

Sherlock shrugs and it is suddenly so clear that it almost takes all of John’s breath away, again. 

_He’s nervous._

“Couldn’t sleep?” John asks, now desperate to find a way to make Sherlock stay in the kitchen. 

“Not tired.”

John doesn’t comment on the lie. He’s been there himself. 

“Me neither.”

“The flight should have been exhausting.”

John wants to smile, wants to reach for Sherlock’s hand again and place it on his heart this time, maybe, _maybe_ then he’ll understand.

“I’ve known worse.”

Silence. 

“Well, if everything’s ok with you, I should —”

“No,” John cuts him off. “I… If neither of us can sleep, maybe we could… I don’t know, we could talk?”

Sherlock looks at him strangely. “Your speech?”

John rubs a hand over his nape. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Sherlock looks intrigued. John gestures towards the sofa, going there first to make room for the both of them to sit down. Sherlock keeps his distance, which is entirely understandable, but John is glad the earlier awkwardness is gone. He places both hands on his lap, staring at the open window in front of them. He can hear the ocean from here, and he wonders if he should have suggested they take a walk outside instead. 

“You asked why I was here,” he says instead. 

“I did,” Sherlock replies, having gone back to talking quietly.

“The answer is pretty obvious if you think about it,” John begins, waiting for Sherlock to look at him before continuing. “Because you are.”

Sherlock looks puzzled at this, then, defeated. 

“Did it ever occur to you that I might have come here because you weren’t.”

John takes the blow without a noise. 

“Yes,” he says, steady, “it did.”

Sherlock looks away. “And yet you came.”

“I almost didn’t,” John replies. “I get why you decided to leave. But I couldn’t just let you go without…”

Sherlock’s eyes find his again. “Without what?”

John takes a deep breath. “If this is the end of us, I want to make sure you know everything.”

Sherlock remains silent. John doesn’t blame him. He hadn’t thought saying it out loud would make his whole body ache like this. _The end of us_. As if it were allowed to even happen.

“Don’t you think it should be?” Sherlock finally says. “Don’t you think it already is?”

“Maybe, yeah.” 

John clenches his fingers around his knees. He really needs to put on some trousers of some kind. 

“It’s what you want then?” he asks, needing to know for sure.

Sherlock sighs, “I thought I knew the answer to that. I thought coming here would make it easier to be absolutely certain.”

“Did it work?”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, as if losing a battle. “You came here.”

John resists the urge to move closer.

“Should I have not?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, eyes still closed. John finds him so beautiful that it hurts not to be touching him. 

“What’s everything?” Sherlock’s voice is barely audible, but John doesn’t need him to say more. 

“Wanna go for a walk?”


	15. “I’m scared”

John has never changed his clothes so quickly, waiting until Sherlock has disappeared inside his room. He needs to think and think fast. This walk might be the best idea he’s ever had and, considering all that he has to say, he needs to be able to think properly. He can’t do the original speech - too rehearsed. No, he has to find the right words for Sherlock to understand how he has been feeling the entire time without making it seem as if if he is still hoping for it all to happen. 

He needs to be rational, clear, in control. 

“Nights are warm here,” Sherlock says, startling him. “You won’t need that jacket.”

“Oh yes, right, thanks.” He takes the jacket off, cursing at his own stupidity. “Ready?”

Sherlock nods, going for the door, and John follows, bracing himself for whatever might happen next. They don’t exchange a word until they reach the beach, walking in silence for another ten minutes or so before Sherlock finally asks, “So?”

John laughs nervously. “You’re not making this easy.”

“Because it’s supposed to be?”

John shakes his head. “No, you’re right, it’s not.”

“Listen, John, we don’t have to —”

“I have a drinking problem,” John blurts out. Sherlock stops walking for a second, not saying a word as he resumes again. “I’m aware of the problem, I know the triggers and I know the signs. Still, I drink. When it’s bad I…”

“When it’s bad you turn up on my doorstep,” Sherlock finishes for him.

“I told myself I needed to stop, after the first time I showed up. I felt like a complete idiot the next morning. Felt so ashamed that I swore to myself I would throw away all the bottles in my flat. And I did. Not a single drink for a long time after that, and then… well, then I only needed to find an open pub.” 

Sherlock nods slowly, apparently hesitating to say something and so John waits until he finally breathes out a tentative, “I have a theory about why you come to 221B each time.”

“I’m sure you do,” John replies, knowing he sounds much too soft but not caring in the slightest. 

“Do you want to hear it?”

They eyes meet for a lingering moment.

“Yes, but before you tell me, I should say that no matter the reason, what I did was wrong and I had no right to come to your home like that.”

Sherlock seems taken aback by this, frowning at him, and John focuses back on the endless beach in front of them. Sherlock can’t read his body posture or the wrinkle around his eyes - not yet.

“I think I’m your trigger,” Sherlock says, using the voice he so often uses with clients. “I think the first time was because I refused your offer to come back to Baker Street for coffee after the case we just solved. I think you resented me, I think you felt betrayed by my refusal. So naturally, that’s where you went after getting drunk, that’s why you accused me of all those things.”

Sherlock pauses. John knows he’s testing his reaction. In control. He glances at him, silently encouraging him to continue. 

“I think the second time was because of Mark.”

Sherlock doesn’t go further than that. John realises he doesn’t need to. A simple sentence saying it all. 

“You’re right, of course.” John takes a few breath, looking around as if to find an answer in the crushing waves or the darkness of the sky. “I still consider Baker Street as my home, and it feels as if you don’t. Not anymore.”

“You’re the one who moved away, John.” Sherlock’s tone is bitter, almost angry. 

“I know,” John replies. “I’m responsible for our downfall. I’m perfectly aware of that part. I made bad choices all along the way, forcing you to follow me and fix it all for me after. I’m the reason you got hurt, much too many times. Of course you are my trigger.”

“I never meant to be,” Sherlock says, apologising. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t think neither of us could have prevented it anyway.”

They come to a halt, John sitting down on the sand, facing the ocean. It only takes a second for Sherlock to sit next to him, the same aching distance between them. 

“Do you have a theory about Mark, too, then?”

“I’m tired of theories, John,” Sherlock sighs. “Especially when it comes to you.”

“Why?”

Sherlock gathers his legs against his chest, resting his chin on his knees. He looks so vulnerable, so far from his natural element, that John is afraid he could simply vanish, disappear into the rising sun and cease to be Sherlock Holmes.

“I’ve spent the last seven years trying to understand you, trying to put sense into your actions and in all that you weren’t saying. I tried to find explanations for why you stayed, for why you left, and then for why you didn’t come back.” Silence, stretching around them like a cold blanket. “Like I said, I’m tired.”

“I hated Mark because he was getting all your attention. I had seen them before, the type B fans, but you usually ignored them. But him,” John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Him you laughed with and smiled to and genuinely cared for. I couldn’t stand to witness it all, to be there when it finally happens.”

“When what happens?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“You, falling for someone.”

Sherlock turns to look at him. “I didn’t fall for him.”

“But you could have,” John replies. “One day, you are going to. You deserve to.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You truly are an idiot, John Watson.”

John chuckles, not sure what to make of this statement. 

“Mark was nice, charming and polite. The kind of man you fall for, as you say.”

“And you said you didn’t,” John can’t help but point out.

“And yet, I didn’t. What do you make of that?”

John looks away, “I could answer that question, but it would mean getting to the real part of everything.”

“Isn’t it why we are here?” Sherlock asks. 

“I’m not sure now,” John replies honestly. “I came here with the clear intention of saying it all to you. But now, even though it looks like there isn’t much left to save, I don’t know if can risk it.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but doesn’t take his eyes off of him. In the end, it is the silent staring, not quite an encouragement but almost, that allows the knot in John’s throat to loosen just enough.

“I’ve been feeling a certain way for you,” John finally breathes out. “For a long time.”

Sherlock exhales loudly next to him, as if releasing a breath held too long. John doesn’t dare to glance at him. 

“I couldn’t stand to be there and watch you with Mark because of those feelings. I went and had way too many drinks after because of those feelings. I ended up drunk at Baker Street because of those feelings.” He laughs nervously. “I’m fact, you might say I did a lot of stupid things because of those feelings.”

Sherlock is still silent next to him and, for a moment, John fears he might just leave. 

“But you see, I am grateful for those feelings, because not matter of they made me do all this stupid stuffs, they also means that I’ve found someone who can make me feel so strongly, you can make me so happy, sad or even angry, and not a lot of people can say the same.”

John lets his fingers play with the sand, anything to keep himself from fleeing. 

“It’s those feelings that got me on the plane and to you and, right now, it’s because of them that I feel as if my chest is about to implode because you are deadly silent now and I don’t know what that means and I’m scared to death you understand exactly what I’m talking about but don’t know how to tell me how ridiculous it is and —”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is raw with emotion, forcing John to look back at him only to have his last defense breaking down. “I’m scared.”

“Christ, Sherlock, sorry I didn’t mean to —”

Sherlock bursts into bright giggles despite the tears in his eyes, taking John by surprise. He presses his lips together, refusing to let another word out. 

“John, you are not always nice or charming or even polite, but I think we’ve established that it’s not what I need in someone to fall for them.”

John knows he’s shaking now, hands buried in the sand. He can’t look away from Sherlock’s eyes, seeing there all that he ever hoped for and yet not quite believing it.

“We’ve also established that I’m an idiot and right now I’m not entirely sure I understand what you’re saying exactly.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, breathing heavily, his eyes searching John’s face like he did so many times in the past. John knows what he wants to understand, knows what he wants to do right this very second. His body acts before his brain can catch up, hands rising from the sand to Sherlock’s face, most likely itching against his skin, but there isn’t a trace of complaint in Sherlock’s eyes. 

He’s not sure who moves first, probably him, and soon he’s close enough to feel Sherlock’s breath against his mouth. His head might be spinning just a little. He leans in, heart pounding against his chest, only to pull back immediately. He can’t just kiss Sherlock, he needs to make sure, needs to be certain he also wa —

“John,” Sherlock says, one hand coming to circle John’s left wrist. 

It’s all wrapped up in his name, everything that they still haven’t said. Everything John had come here to confess. Everything Sherlock has been wanting to hear. The final decision, the easiest one in the end. And so, John leans back in.

It’s not quite a kiss, more a brush of lips, bodies meeting for the first time in such intimate ways. Mouths pressed together, breath mingling in the middle, hands holding on. Breaking apart only to meet over and over again. Tentative brushes turning into much more with each new try. Kisses after kisses, tasting tears and sunshine directly from Sherlock’s lips.


	16. “I really want you right now.”

John is starting to think they might just keep kissing on this beach forever when a drunken voice calls behind them,

“GET A ROOM, LOVEBIRDS!”

Sherlock jumps in surprise, pulling away from John immediately and looking scared all of a sudden. John, hands still cupping his face, tries a tentative smile, as if to conceal his own shyness about it. Although his stomach is currently doing flips either from being nervous or excited, he can't help but wish they could just go back to kissing again. Actually, he’d be fine with only kissing Sherlock from now on.

“Maybe…” Sherlock starts before clearing his throat. “Maybe we should go back to the Airbnb.”

John nods, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. He needs to do something, say something before what just happened becomes awkward. He can’t let that happen. Even if, by some miraculous chance, Sherlock seems to be feeling the same way as he does, he can’t risk it. 

“You’re right,” he says, already standing up. “More privacy there.”

Sherlock looks down at his feet at the words, putting both hands in his pockets and walking away quickly. John hurries to catch up, heart pounding. He glances at Sherlock, face hidden from him, just as his hands are. John suppresses a sigh. He can’t really explain, but holding Sherlock’s hand has been one of his first fantasies. Whether it was in the street or at home, just lacing their fingers together has been haunting his days and nights for years. And now, with his dirty ones and Sherlock’s safely tucked in his shorts, John feels just a bit disappointed. 

They arrive at the Airbnb without having exchanged a word. Sherlock doesn’t turn the lights on, taking his shoes off and walking to the bedroom immediately. John watches him, now feeling hopeless and a little lost. He can’t have misunderstood what just happened, right? He said it all - well, the most important thing - and Sherlock had kind of said it back, in his own way. And he kissed him back. Several times, actually. That has to count for something. 

“Sherlock, I —”

Sherlock closes his bedroom door before he can form a sentence. John curses under his breath, throwing both arms in the air in defeat. What is he supposed to do now? It’s still the bloody middle of the night and he’s even further from falling asleep than before. Taking a deep breath, he tries to put some sense into what happened. After all, Sherlock’s behaviour shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. For all John knows (or what he’s been told), this is the first time Sherlock might have kissed someone. There had been that kiss with Janine, but if everything else had been just a lie, that part was probably one, too. Of course he’s going to need time. 

“Idiot,” John curses again at himself. “Bloody idiot.”

If time is what Sherlock needs, then he’s going to make sure he has all the time in the world to get used to everything. For now, another glass of water might help to calm him back down, and surely sleep will come at some point. Or else, he can just think of the way Sherlock’s mouth felt moving against his own. 

He’s just about to change back into sleeping clothes when Sherlock’s bedroom door flies open. 

“Sherlock, is everything alright?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, walking to him and stopping barely a few centimetres away. John licks his lower lip nervously, the proximity doing all kinds of things to his mind. 

“You kissed me,” Sherlock blurts out, leaving no time for John to reply before continuing, “ and that means I can kiss you, too.”

John’s entire body melts with the love he has for this brilliant, vulnerable man. 

“Yes, you can,” he replies, soft and quiet. 

That is all Sherlock needs, apparently, because he’s pressing them together again, lips finding John’s with a muffled whimper. John’s hands fly back automatically around his body, his waist and lower back this time. Sherlock’s settle around his face, fingers playing with the shorter hair on John’s nape. Somehow, this feels even better than the kisses on the beach. 

They part after long minutes, Sherlock resting his forehead against John’s. 

“That’s good,” Sherlock says, a hidden question.

“More than good if you ask me,” John replies, brushing their lips together. 

Sherlock sighs, eyes fluttering closed, before pulling away. They stare at each other, and John can’t help but wonder if his own smile is just as luminous as Sherlock’s.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Unsurprisingly, it only takes a few minutes for John to fall asleep after that. 

________________________________________

John was starting to wonder what he ever did to deserve spending an entire day kissing Sherlock at every possible occasion. 

They had woken up late in the morning, John waking up first still dizzy from the previous night. He had stayed still on the sofa for a long moment, staring at the ocean through the window and replaying their conversation and kisses over and over again. It still felt like some kind of dream - a really really good one - the kind he never allowed himself to remember after waking up. But this time, Sherlock was in the room next door, and John intended to kiss him again as soon as he woke up. 

He had taken care of ordering in a late brunch, getting everything ready in the small kitchen. Sherlock had surprised him, silently walking in while he was setting the dishes on the table, and John had looked up to find him already very close. Kissing him had been the most obvious option and, really, it seemed Sherlock had more than agreed. 

It had only been the beginning. What followed was kisses in the pool (and also in the jacuzzi) after brunch, John making sure to keep a safe distance so as to not overwhelm Sherlock. Then, some more kissing while taking another walk, longer this time, spent talking and holding hands. They had stopped in the coffee shop, sharing smiles over their coffee mugs, feet in the sand. Sherlock had waited until they were outside before pulling him close and kissing him breathless for a long moment. John never thought once about complaining. 

And now, sitting face to face in a small but quite fancy pizza place, John can’t seem to be able to stop staring at Sherlock’s lips.

“We should check out this antique shop down a few streets,” Sherlock is saying, eyes going over the menu. “I heard there is a cinema inside.”

“Hmmm,” John replies. 

Sherlock looks up at him, lips stretching into a smile. 

“John, you are being obvious.”

John shrugs, smiling back. 

“I don’t care. You have the most kissable lips, you know that?”

Sherlock blushes. John is barely able to resist the urge to kiss him right there, right now. They haven’t talked much about what they told each other the night before. John would have liked to ask about Sherlock’s half confession, not having stopped wondering what it meant exactly. But he doesn’t want to ruin what’s building between them. Sherlock looks comfortable here, at ease, and John wants nothing more than for this date to be absolutely perfect. 

“I’m thinking rosé, what about you?” Sherlock asks, focusing back on the menu. 

“I’m not drinking tonight,” John replies. 

Sherlock’s eyes are back on him immediately, sharp and studying. John lets him see it all. He doesn’t need a drink tonight, nor any night from now on. He is not going to let alcohol get in the way of this. Never again. 

“But you should get some,” he continues.

“I will,” Sherlock smiles, his feet coming to brush John’s under the table. 

The waiter comes to take their orders. John waits until he’s gone before leaning closer over the table. 

“I didn’t ask, but why South Africa?”

“I read a lot about it a few years ago for a case, and always wanted to come since. I figured December was the best month to do so.”

“Much warmer than London for sure,” John smiles.

“There is a lot to see, too,” Sherlock says. “I haven’t had the chance to visit everything yet but maybe we could. Together.”

“I’d love to,” John replies, this time giving in and raising himself up to place a tender kiss on Sherlock’s lips. 

He notices Sherlock looking around when he sits back down, and John frowns.

“Was that alright?”

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock replies, nodding. “I just thought you weren’t the kind of person who’s comfortable with public displays of affection.” Sherlock’s eyes meet his briefly before looking away. “You always were very discreet with Mary.”

John considers his answer for a long moment, feeling Sherlock’s eyes back on him.

“I guess I was, yes. But the thing is, and I hate that it sounds so… mean, but I never felt this urge to kiss her constantly.” He stares back at Sherlock. “Whereas you…”

Sherlock exhales loudly, the promises of many more kisses dancing on his face. Things become easier after that, Sherlock opening up more and more, especially after a third glass of rosé. John watches him get tipsy over the main meal, and then properly drunk over dessert. He can’t help but smile, remembering the last time Sherlock was drunk and how close he had come to letting it all out then. 

True to himself, Sherlock begins to mumble nonsense, words mixed together inside his mouth. John holds on to him tightly as they walk home, loving the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his own. 

“This is so pretty, John!”

Sherlock waves at the ocean several times. 

“We should move here. I’ll solve clinics and you’ll find a case.”

“Maybe in our old days, yeah,” John replies, fumbling with his keys.

They get inside, somehow. Sherlock backs him up against the nearest wall immediately, mouth attacking his hungrily. John kisses back, tasting rosé and chocolate on Sherlock’s tongue. He moans at the feeling of Sherlock’s hand roaming up and down his sides, and then much lower. 

“Sherlock,” he says, as softly as he can. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“I really want you right now,” Sherlock says, directly against his ear. 

John holds back another moan, pushing Sherlock away and taking his hand. 

“Come on,” he says, pulling him towards the bedroom. 

Sherlock follows, undressing with his free hand. John keeps his eyes forward, knowing nothing will happen tonight and trying to find a way to tell Sherlock. He helps Sherlock take his shoes off once he’s sitting on the bed, then his jacket, but stops him before he can remove his shirt. 

“Let’s keep that on, love.”

Sherlock frowns, “I may be a virgin, but I’m quite certain clothes are off during sex.”

John tries his best not to go too still, a drunk Sherlock still perfectly able to deduce him. 

“We can have a discussion about this tomorrow if you want.”

“But I want sex with you now,” Sherlock says, tugging at his shirt. “Naked sex.”

John laughs softly, “We’ll have naked sex, but not tonight. Tonight you are going to lie down and sleep.”

Sherlock goes willingly when John pushes him down the bed. He pulls the cover away, not needing them anyway. 

“We can have sex with clothes if you prefer,” Sherlock offers. “But afterwards, can I see you naked?”

John leans down to kiss him, quick and soft before a Sherlock can pull him down on top of him. 

“I’m going to have a shower, I’ll be right back,” he says, hoping Sherlock will be fast asleep by the time he’s done. 

“Then sex?” Sherlock asks, watching him go.

“We’ll see about that.”

“But John…” The rest of the sentence dies off in a yawn, Sherlock’s eyes already fluttering closed. 

“Goodnight, love,” John whispers before closing the door.


	17. "I think I'm gonna..."

Light, sun, hot, dry, very dry, so dry, so,  _ so  _ dry. Why is his mouth so dry? Why does it feel as though his head is filled with pulsating cotton?

It all comes flooding back, even as he hears the tinny noise running through his head: holding hands - date - wine - John -  _ John - John. _

He (painfully) remembers it all - every last second of their date, even the parts he’d rather forget, where he made an utter fool of himself.

He remembers trying to seduce John. He remembers John turning him down. He remembers trying to seduce John again. He remembers John going to shower. After that, he must have fallen asleep, because he’s sure John spoke of  _ love _ in his dreams.

He tries to stand from the bed, but he feels dizzy. Too fast. He lies back down, letting his right leg hang off the side of the bed so that his foot can steady him on the floor. Better, except… 

Oh no. No, no, no.

He jumps up and runs to the bathroom, just in time to throw up in the toilet bowl.

If there’s one thing he absolutely hates, it’s throwing up. More than the average person does. Since he was a child, it was common knowledge in his house that he was an absolute nightmare when he had a stomach bug or food poisoning. 

He keeps retching into the toilet when John comes in - which is, incidentally, the only thing that could make it worse: somebody - not just  _ somebody _ , John - seeing him doing something so vile and horrible.

“You okay?” he asks gently, coming closer.

“Go a-away!” Sherlock spits out between dry heaves. “I think I’m gonna…” He awfully throws up more than he has in his stomach, making him hate his life more than he ever has.

“Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

John moves ever closer, coming to rest his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock groans. “Do you absolutely h-have to be here for this?”

“Sherlock,” John chastises softly, “I’m a doctor, remember?”

“A hangover doesn’t qualify as cause for seeing a doctor,” Sherlock complains, sitting back against the cool tiled wall as he flushes the chain. He hopes, wishes, absolutely  _ prays  _ that he’s done. 

“No, but I can still take care of you. Let me get you something to rehydrate you.”

He disappears for a while.

Sherlock closes his eyes against his furious stomach, willing the world to stop spinning for a little bit. He has always been terrible at handling his alcohol, and that was even before he became a nearing middle-aged man who barely ever drinks.

John comes back with a glass of something that looks suspiciously clear-milky.

“What is that?” he moans.

“Rehydration salts. Just drink it. You’ll feel better.” John hands him the glass and sits down on the floor next to him.

“You can go back to your bed - or couch - now. I’m okay.”

“Stop being ridiculous.”

“‘M not.”

“Sip that.”

“Stop fussing.”

“I’ll stop fussing when you drink it. There’s a good lad,” John encourages him after he takes a few sips. “Want to go back to bed?”

Sherlock considers for a moment, then nods. Bed sounds great. Being horizontal, in general, seems very favourable right now.

“Let’s go.” John lifts him up under his arm, carrying a lot of his weight.

“John, I’m hungover, not crippled.”

“Just. Shutup and let me look after you. Can’t you give me that?”

“Fine,” he grumbles.

John takes him back into the bedroom and tucks him into bed, bringing the sheet up to his chin and brushing his hair back from his sticky forehead. He places a careful peck just above his left eyebrow.

He turns to leave after a beat. “I’ll be in the TV room if you need —”

“Stay.” Sherlock’s voice is impossibly quiet, shy. “If. If you can.”

John looks at him, as though in wonder. “Yeah, ‘course. ‘Course I can.”

He goes around to the left side of the bed and climbs in. Sherlock lies on his back for a while, wondering what the right thing to say would be. John turns to face him, so he mirrors the action. He takes Sherlock’s hand in his and laces their fingers together. They stay that way for a long time, looking each other in the eyes, saying nothing but, at the same time, everything. 

_ Love, there had been love. Goodnight, love. _

Sherlock brings John’s hand up to kiss it. John smiles, a small, private moment just for the two of them that Sherlock intends never to forget.

“So,” John clears his throat. “You were quite something last night.”

“Shutup,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You know I’m rubbish at drinking.”

“It was adorable.”

Sherlock scrunches his nose. He’s deciding whether or not that’s a good thing.

“You were very… convincing,” John says suggestively.

“You weren’t very convinced,” he replies, a hint of accusation in his tone.

“Yes, well. I’m a gentleman.”

Sherlock scoffs, poking him in the ribs with his free hand. “Since when?”

John turns serious all of a sudden. “I want our first time to be memorable. I want us both to remember it, and have that memory always. Especially since… What you told me.”

“Oh, forget what I told you,” Sherlock groans, looking at the ceiling and wanting the earth to swallow him whole. 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed. I just don’t want it to become a point of contention in any way whatsoever.”

“Why would it be?”

“I don’t want. I wouldn’t want you to think less of me, or to treat me any differently than you would any other of your romantic partners. I want us to be on equal footing.”

“We are on equal footing,” John says, confusion written on his features. “It doesn’t change anything. Not a thing. Barring the fact that I want it to be special. For you. For both of us, actually. Other than that, I don’t care a whit if you’ve never slept with anybody or if you’ve slept with the whole of Greater Britain. It doesn’t concern me.”

Sherlock considers for a moment, wondering how open he should be. “It’s not… I haven’t gone all the way with…” he clears his throat, feeling incredibly embarrassed, but finding himself wanting to share this with John. To share everything with him, in fact. “That is, I’ve not had sex, yes, but I’ve… done other things.”

John smiles lightly, his expression carefully neutral.

“What?” 

“Nothing.”

“What’s that look for?”

“I just find you more and more endearing every day.”

Sherlock ducks his head, determined not to blush like the proverbial virgin bride that he probably seems to be.

“Is that okay?” John asks softly.

“Yes,” he replies. “Yes, I think it is.”  
  
They lie in bed for hours, John periodically bringing Sherlock fluids and food. They talk about old cases and reminisce about good memories and tiptoe around bad ones. They make each other laugh and spend long moments kissing (after Sherlock insists on brushing his teeth three times). It’s perfect in a way Sherlock never thought possible and, best of all, miraculously, it’s  _ his. _


	18. "What about my gift?"

“So this is the antique shop you were telling me about?”

Sherlock nods as he pushes the front door open, the smell of old books and furniture making John smile. How he loves places like this. Sherlock had insisted this morning they come here, saying they could watch a movie afterwards, and John had been more than happy to agree. And he isn’t regretting it. Sherlock is already walking towards the large bookshelves in the back but John takes his time, looking at the different objects on display. He stops in what looks to be the medical section, picking up an old set of scalpels to examine them more closely.

“John, look what I found!”

John looks up, Sherlock holding up what seems to be an old journal.

“What is it?”

Sherlock walks back towards him. “A doctor’s personal journal. By the looks of it, he’s describing early medical experiments.”

“Sounds interesting,” John smiles.

Sherlock nods with enthusiasm, noticing the scalpels.

“Are you getting those?”

“I was thinking it could be Molly’s gift,” John says. “What do you think?”

“You’re getting her a gift?” Sherlock asks, frowning.

“I’m pretty sure she’s getting me one, too,” John replies. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugs, “I didn’t know you two still talked.”

“From time to time, yes,” John says. “I’m also getting something for Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Maybe Mike, too.”

“What about my gift?” Sherlock blurts out, flushing right afterward, as if the words escaped him.

John falls just a bit more in love, right there. 

“Of course you’re getting a gift,” he says, taking a step closer. “But I’m not telling you anything about it.”

A playful smile blooms on Sherlock’s lips, and John kisses it softly. 

“Now, tell me more about that journal of yours.” 

Sherlock immediately starts off with some deductions about the author, and John listens carefully as they walk around the shop. They end up buying a few more books, paying just in time for the movie to start. They’re both surprised by the lack of proper cinema seating, the room filled with old sofas and chairs only. Sherlock chooses a sofa for the both of them, sitting down after John and all but wrapping himself around him. If John had been surprised with Sherlock’s offer to watch a movie in the first place, he understands now. He kisses Sherlock’s temple softly as the room goes dark. The movie ends with John half falling asleep, way too comfortable on the sofa with Sherlock feeling so very warm against him. It’s only when the credits start, the music suddenly louder, that he wakes up fully. Sherlock is already stretching out, revealing just a patch of his hip bone and, yes, John is very much awake now. 

“That was surprisingly alright,” Sherlock says.

“You loved it,” John smiles. 

“I enjoyed it a lot,” Sherlock corrects him, the same playful smile on his lips.

John leans in, kissing him until Sherlock all but melts into the touch, a hand coming to stroke John’s nape softly. 

“How about we get a takeaway?” John asks, pulling away just enough to whisper the words directly against Sherlock’s lips. “Spend a nice evening at the Airbnb?”

Sherlock hums his agreement into another kiss before standing up. John follows quickly, thanking the shop owner for the movie on their way out. Sherlock laces their fingers together as soon as they’re outside, and John lets him lead the way. 

“I was thinking Greek,” Sherlock suggests.

“Perfect.”

“John, I could have said anything and it would have been perfect.”

John bursts out laughing, bumping their shoulders together. “Am I really that obvious?”

“Depends,” Sherlock replies, sounding all too serious. 

John doesn’t allow himself to linger on his tone, nor the answer. He’s very much aware there is still a lot they need to say to each other, but for now, he only wants to enjoy their time away and this new facet of their relationship. 

“This one is supposed to be excellent,” Sherlock suddenly says, having stopped in front of a small restaurant. 

“Let’s see,” John replies, pushing the door open without letting go of Sherlock’s hand.

The restaurant isn’t too crowded and they quickly place their order. Sherlock, apparently wanting to try a bit of everything, takes care in ordering for the both of them. John is glad to simply be there, getting to experience something so ordinary and yet breathtakingly new. They don’t have to wait long, Sherlock spending the entire time pointing out details from the movie that explains why it is still so popular. John listens avidly, unable to stop himself from smiling from ear to ear. 

They don’t talk much for the entire walk home, this comfortable silence John had thought lost settling back between them. Sherlock finds his journal as soon as they get home, sitting down on the sofa and letting John take care of their food. He sets it all down on the coffee table, sitting next to Sherlock and reaching for the remote control. 

“Do you mind if I turn on the TV?”

Sherlock shakes his head, taking a plate and sitting back a bit closer to him this time. John gets his own food, finding a documentary channel and settling back. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in the domesticity of this moment. For just a second, he imagines this very same scene but back in 221B. Home. 

“John?”

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock is looking at him, frowning, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes,” John replies. “More than alright.”

Sherlock studies him for another minute before going back to his book. John focuses on the TV, finishing what’s on his plate quickly. He settles more comfortably on the sofa afterwards, sliding an arm around Sherlock’s waist, allowing him to lean against him more properly. They remain like that, John kissing Sherlock’s temple now and then, if not his lips when Sherlock silently asks for a kiss. It’s not until a second documentary ends that Sherlock puts his book down, yawning. 

“Bed?” John whispers, turning off the TV. 

Sherlock nods, not moving yet but seeking another kiss instead. John obliges him happily, sliding both hands up his back and into his hair, letting their tongues meet and part for a long moment before pulling apart for air. He can see the arousal so clearly in Sherlock’s eyes then that it makes his entire body shudder. 

“Why don’t you go get ready first,” he says, out of breath. “I’ll take care of all this and then join you.”

“My bed?”

John nods, kissing him briefly one last time before detaching himself from him. He gets to his feet, taking all that he can from the table and going to the kitchen, feeling Sherlock watching him the whole time. 

“Sherlock,” he calls. “Shower.”

He hears him sigh again but also get up and soon the bathroom door is closing. John waits until he can hear the water running before going back to collect the rest of their food. He takes care of it all quickly, heading to the bedroom to get some pyjamas and going back into the kitchen to wait for Sherlock. He tries not to think too much of Sherlock’s naked body in the next room, nor about the fact that they made it clear last night that they both wanted _more_.

Still, John isn’t sure how to start. What to do or to say to be absolutely certain Sherlock is just as desperate as he is. 

“John, bathroom’s free,” Sherlock calls from the bedroom. 

“Thanks, I’ll be quick!”

He peeks inside the bedroom just in time to see Sherlock settling into bed. He makes quick work of his shower and evening routine, joining him barely fifteen minutes later. Sherlock is still in the exact same position, back against the bed frame, hands clasped on his lap. John nods towards the bed lamp and Sherlock turns it on just as he turns off the main light. 

Without a word, John gets into bed too, lying down directly. Sherlock imitates him, sliding down until his head is resting on the pillow. John turns to face him, but Sherlock continues to stare at the ceiling. With everything they already shared the day before, it shouldn’t still be this strange to be in the same bed. And yet, John can’t help but wonder if it isn’t always going to be. After years of fantasising about it, of imagining different scenarios where they found themselves in the same bed, of course the reality of it all is going to feel weird. Surely Sherlock must feel it too. Surely he also imagined— Oh. Yes. Of course. 

“The first time I imagined sleeping in the same bed as you wasn’t long after I moved in,” John murmurs.

Sherlock goes still. 

“For a long time, I didn’t dare to go inside your bedroom. I don’t know why - it’s stupid, really - but it felt like dangerous territory,” John continues, eyes detailing Sherlock’s profile meticulously. “I was already thinking about what could happen in there too much, so I figured it was best not to feed the fantasy.”

Sherlock turns to face him very slowly, rolling onto his side. His eyes find John’s immediately, piercing even in the dim light. John focuses on his breathing, knowing this could go in two directions only. 

“I never really understood why,” Sherlock finally says, “but it was always my bed, too, in my head. Never yours.”

“I blame Mrs Hudson and her remark about the second bedroom,” John replies, smiling. “From the very start, she insinuated that we’d be using yours only. Made it our room, even for just a second or so.”

“Can you tell me more?” Sherlock asks.

John licks his lower lips, wondering where to start. There are so many fantasies he could tell Sherlock about, so many situations he played out inside his head over the past few years. So many of them he tried to forget, to erase from his mind once and for all. 

“It was strange, to be completely honest,” he finally decides on saying. “All my life, I fantasised about getting into people’s bed to have sex, a stranger at a bar or a potential girlfriend. But during those first few weeks at Baker Street, all I wanted was to slide under the covers with you so that you could look at me; just that. I hated going upstairs every night because suddenly I wasn’t around you anymore. I couldn’t feel your eyes on me anymore.”

Sherlock studies him silently, lips parting a few times but never a sound coming out.

“I realise that I sound like an arse, wanting to be the centre of your attention even at night.”

“No,” Sherlock whispers, shaking his head. “I understand what you mean more than you know. You were - and still are - a complete mystery, and I thought several times about studying your sleep patterns, that maybe it would help me.”

“Did you study them last night?” John asks, his smile growing wider.

“Maybe,” Sherlock replies, smiling back. 

John shifts closer, hating the gap between them on the mattress. 

“Even if I thought a lot about that,” he continues, “it doesn’t mean I wasn’t also thinking about doing much more than just looking at each other in your bed.”

“Even if I wondered about your sleep patterns, it doesn’t mean I hadn’t thought about it either.”

John swallows slowly, Sherlock’s eyes seeming suddenly more determined. Where last night had been all about closeness and reassurance that the other was truly _there_ , John can feel the mood changing with each second ticking by now. There is no denying how much he wants to get to know Sherlock that way, to know every patch of his skin, to discover all that can make him cry out from pleasure. 

But…

“I meant what I said yesterday morning. I want this,” he gestures between the two of them, “to be special.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, soft and quiet. “I understand.” Another pause. “I want that too.”

Taking him by surprise, Sherlock slowly begins to remove his shirt, eyes fixed on him, questioning. John, frozen in place, realises he should be doing the same. He gets rid of both shirt and pants without breaking eye contact, remaining covered by the sheet and waiting for Sherlock. They stare back at each other, completely naked and just inches apart. John exhales loudly, a small smile blooming on Sherlock’s lips.

“Nervous?”

John nods. Sherlock’s tone says it all. 

“There is something you’ll want to see first,” Sherlock says, this time his voice breaking just a little. “Promise me you won’t angry.”

John’s heart aches inside his chest at the words. He nods, a silent promise he made to himself months ago anyway. Slowly, Sherlock rolls to his back, and then, his other side. It takes a second or two for John to understand what he means. But it isn’t anger that takes over him at the sight of Sherlock’s back.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, touching the marked skin with shaking fingers. 

“They don’t hurt,” Sherlock says, tensing at the contact of John’s hand anyway. “Not anymore.”

“Serbia?” John asks, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock nods. He is shivering under John’s touch, and so John moves closer, using his body heat to try and warm him up. He closes his eyes, letting his hands learn the shapes of each scar on Sherlock’s skin, wondering if one day he’ll know them all by heart. He kisses Sherlock’s shoulder softly, the both of them letting out a shaky breath. Taking him by surprise, Sherlock rolls over in John’s arms, kissing him soundly. John can’t do anything but kiss him back, their bodies now attached to each other. The feeling is both exhilarating and scary, but John holds on as tightly as he can. 

Sherlock is warm against him, so tall and at the same time fitting inside John’s arms perfectly. The kiss turns into something much more heated, hips moving on their own and erections meeting in the middle. John breaks away, panting against Sherlock’s lips while searching his eyes for any sign of discomfort. But he only finds bare need there, Sherlock’s fingers leaving marks on John’s back. 

“Like this,” Sherlock says, breathing heavily.

John nods, licking his lower lip before going back for another kiss. He can feel his orgasm already building up, the sensation taking him entirely by surprise. He can’t remember the last time he felt so desperate for release. Sherlock is shaking in his arms, moans and whimpers getting lost into each new kiss. Realising this wasn’t meant to last anyway, not after so many years of longing, John slides a hand between their bodies, taking them both in hand and having only to stroke twice before Sherlock is coming. Head thrown back, body tensing, John’s name echoing inside the room. John is lost to his own orgasm in a matter of seconds, pressing his face against Sherlock’s neck and crying his pleasure there. 

Sherlock’s body goes pliant into his arms, legs and arms wrapped around him. John smiles, kissing Sherlock’s neck a few times before pulling away to look at him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, not caring in the slightest how silly he might sound.

Sherlock smiles, a lazy, brilliant smile that takes all of the air left in John’s lungs away. Removing his hand, John starts to roll back over to get something to clean them up, but Sherlock pulls him back to him immediately.

“Sherlock, I-”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock says, kissing him again and, really, John can only agree. 


	19. "I told you not to read that."

John wakes up warm and rested. He can’t remember the last time he felt so blissfully happy waking up, and it doesn’t take long to realise why. Remaining completely still, he closes his eyes again and lets himself enjoy the fantastic feeling of Sherlock’s naked body pressed against his. So this is it then, how he’s going to wake up every morning from now on. Well, no one is going to hear him complain ever again. 

Sherlock stirs in his sleep, the leg currently trapped between John’s sliding higher. A moan espaces John’s lips before he can do anything about it, his morning erection loving the new contact of Sherlock’s hip. But then, it isn’t as if Sherlock’s own erection wasn’t pressed against John’s stomach this very instant. John’s smile grows wider, memories of the events of last night coming back to him. He couldn’t have hoped for a better first time, no matter how fast they both climaxed. The closeness of the moment, they way Sherlock had held on to him, had make it absolutely perfect. 

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock moans, stretching against him and pushing himself more firmly against John. 

“Morning,” John says, kissing his chin softly. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, one hand sliding up John’s left thigh, side and finally neck. Eyes still closed, Sherlock leans in, blindly asking for a kiss that John gives him happily. Some rather long minutes stretch around them, lips moving together and, soon, bodies too. 

“Very good morning indeed,” John chuckles.

Sherlock’s eyes blinks open, meeting his, soft and playful. 

“I didn’t touch you back yesterday,” he says, sounding much too serious. 

“I remember you touching me quite a lot,” John replies, placing quick kisses all along his jaw.

“You know what I mean,” Sherlock says, moaning at a particular movement of John’s hips. “Not the way you touched me.”

John pulls away just enough to look back at him, “Is that something you want?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes. 

“Then I’m all yours, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock protests without really meaning it if you ask him, but John doesn’t have the time to tease him more about it, a hand sliding down his stomach. His breath catches at the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers closing around his cock, and he exhales loudly, hoping his morning breath isn’t too bad. But Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind at all, eyes now directed towards the space between their bodies, looking at his own hand around John. 

“Alright?”

John almost chuckles again, but the sound turns into a whimper at the first stroke of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock seems to take that as an answer and repeats the motion, testing different paces and pressures, succeeding in reducing John to a complete mess. 

“Oh, fuck,” John moans, biting down his lower lip. 

Sherlock looks back up at him, eyes wide open and cheeks red. John feels himself grow harder at the sight. Sherlock continues to stroke him, not taking his eyes off John’s. They are both breathing heavily now, John getting close and closer with each new stroke. 

“John, I need…”

Not needing to hear more than that, John closes his own hand around Sherlock’s erection, making him cry out rather loudly. After that, it’s only a matter of a few more firm strokes before they’re both coming with each other’s names on their lips. Sherlock is still staring at him as John comes down from his orgasm, a look of absolute wonder across his face.

“I did that,” Sherlock finally breathes out. “To you.”

John laughs, “You certainly did. Brilliantly so.”

Sherlock is all but beaming now.

“What do you think of spending today in bed?” John asks, finding that he rather likes the sight of a naked Sherlock. 

“I’d say you are definitely not an idiot all the time,” Sherlock replies, accepting John’s glare his with a smile. 

“I’m going to take care of breakfast,” John says, rolling to his side of the bed. “Then we can do more of that.”

“How romantic,” Sherlock replies. “A gentleman, as you put it so well.”

John glares at him some more, putting on some pants and heading out just as Sherlock is reaching for the journal he bought yesterday. The kitchen still smells of Greek food and so John opens a window, the fresh air making him shiver. He opens some of the cupboards, not sure Sherlock actually bought groceries after getting there, but manages to find some coffee and biscuits. He then opens a few drawers, looking for spoons but stops dead when he finds several letters, his name on top of each one. 

He’s reading the first one before he can stop himself. Each word Sherlock wrote down is making his chest ache a little more, and by the time he reaches the end, he can barely hold himself up. He closes the drawer with shaking hands, refusing to read any more letters. He shouldn’t have read that one in the first place, not without Sherlock’s consent. He had told him, the very day he got here, that he didn’t want to show him. And now John understood why perfectly. Those letters are as personal, as raw as the ones he wrote himself, never to be read.

The depth of Sherlock’s feeling is suddenly making it hard to breathe. How could he have been so blind? It was all there, everything he had always hoped Sherlock would tell him. All that could have happened if one of them had simply said something. 

All this time, wasted. 

“John?”

John looks up quickly, but Sherlock is simply calling from the bedroom. Probably still in bed, wondering what is taking so long. John hurries to pour them both their mugs of coffee and brings a tray to the bedroom. He makes sure to regain some composure before coming in. Sherlock looks up from his book, frowning immediately.

“What is it?”

John puts the tray down on his bedside table. There is no point in lying anyway. He isn’t about to start this new relationship with secrets. 

“I was looking for spoons and found your letters.”

Sherlock goes very still and silent for a long moment. John doesn’t say a word more, knowing his own reaction would have been the same if Sherlock had found his letters. 

“I see,” Sherlock finally says, clearing his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” John continues, settling back under the sheet. “I read one.”

“I told you not to read that.”

“I’m so sorry,” John says. 

Sherlock nods slowly, not meeting his eyes. John slides a tentative hand between them, aiming for Sherlock’s.

“I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock lets him lace their fingers together without a word. 

“I wrote letters, too,” John says, voice quiet. “I can show them to you when we get back.”

Sherlock glances at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want any secrets between us anymore,” John says, moving closer. “I want you to read them, want you to know.”

Sherlock studies him for a long moment. John can see the moment he gives up, his body melting against his until John can no longer see his face. 

“Can we not talk about it just yet?”

John breathes out slowly, one hand coming to stroke Sherlock’s back. 

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“We don’t have to have our breakfast,” John says, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “We can just do this for now. Alright?”

Sherlock hums, moving closer if possible.

 _I love you,_ John thinks, wondering why exactly he hasn’t said it out loud yet. 


	20. "Come back home. Please."

Sherlock wakes up for a second time, feeling unsettled, and not just because he has overslept. John is next to him, reading a book on his Kindle.

“Morning again,” he says, looking over with a tentative smile.

“Morning,” Sherlock answers, the blue seeping out into the word.

John must notice, because his expression changes - barely, imperceptibly, but he’s Sherlock Holmes, so he notices immediately.

“Ready to eat now?” John asks softly.

He’s walking on eggshells already and Sherlock hates it. He  _ loathes _ it. Why should John be putting on any sort of facade just because Sherlock can’t deal with his own emotions?

He wants to say he’s sorry and he wants to  _ be  _ sorry, but he just can’t.

It’s not that he’s stubborn (he is, but that isn’t the whole problem); he just doesn’t know how to move past this. How to be okay with loving John, with John knowing that he loves him, but the feeling being unreciprocated. 

“Sherlock?” John asks, already slipping into his clothing. 

“Yes?”

“I asked if you wanted to go for brunch? It might do us some good to go out for a bit.”

“Brunch sounds good,” Sherlock says. 

Because he’ll try. He wants this, he does. And he intends to keep it - what little of  _ it _ there may be. He can’t afford to fuck it up so soon.

They get ready for the day and John drives them to brunch. Sherlock is quiet in the car, but tries his hardest to remain neutral, not allowing his inner discourse to spoil their day. John takes his hand over the gearbox, staring straight ahead.

They eat pain au chocolat and drink cappuccino and offer each other smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes.

When they’re done, they drive back to the Airbnb complex and lay out by the pool, swimming when it becomes too hot (which is often) and lathering each other with sunscreen. John kisses Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock blushes.

The entire time, Sherlock is fully aware that this might not be what he thought it was. It never escapes his mind that he told John that he loves him - in his letters, at least (which John read) - and John never reciprocated. He feels wrong-footed and clumsy and ridiculous. Pathetic, really.

John smiles at him and holds his hand and probably feels sorry for him, because John is a good man. Good enough not to say something he doesn’t mean. Good enough to be kind to him in spite of this. 

He can’t help but think about how he’s ruined the only good thing he ever had, and he didn’t even mean to. And all it took was a couple of days and a careless moment.

The worst part is that he doesn’t know how to solve it. He can solve many things - most things, he would say: murders and kidnappings and robberies - but this? This is not his area. This is John’s area but, obviously, he can’t defer to John’s judgement this time.

“You okay?” John asks as they eat sandwiches for lunch on their lounger chairs.

He waves a hand in John’s general direction. “Yes, fine. Just tired.”

“Sure?” John looks at him, gaze unwavering.

Sherlock nods, swallowing around the guilt-formed bubble in his throat.

Just then, a young girl - early twenties, recently broken up with her boyfriend, studying something in Humanities, self-conscious about her weight, hiding a speckled past - plops down gracefully in one of the chairs with her book. Virginia Woolf.  _ Oh, God, another walking cliché. _

John jumps into the pool, splashing water all over them. The girl wipes her legs off with a scowl. 

“Can you tell your boyfriend not to splash?” she snaps at Sherlock.

“He’s. He’s not my boyfriend,” Sherlock counters.

John looks over to them, his expression unclear.

“I’m ready to go,” John says, climbing out of the pool. “You ready?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, gathering their things.

They settle back in the flat, eat a quiet dinner and Sherlock can feel the tension between them. Not the good kind of tension that he has come to look forward to over the past couple of days, but the awkward kind - the one he truthfully came here to run away from.

Blessedly, John still follows him to bed that night. He still holds Sherlock’s hand between them on the sheets. He still kisses him goodnight, slow and soft and full of something that feels like love, but Sherlock now knows isn’t.

To think that they had slept together just last night and this morning. Now, even the thought of cuddling up together seems foreign or false somehow. He does it anyway.

“When were you planning to return home?” John breaks him out of his reverie with the practicality.

He huffs out in thought, “I hadn’t actually booked a return ticket.”

“I see.”

Silence descends.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John finally says and, if Sherlock didn’t know better, he would swear there was a hint of sadness in it.

“Come back home. Please,” he whispers moments later as he snuggles into John’s arms, as soft as he can without being inaudible. He isn’t sure where it comes from, but it’s there. The final, last-ditch attempt at… something. 

He feels more than hears John’s hesitation, and it feels like falling, like crumbling, like breaking.

“We’ll see,” John sighs. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

John brings up their joint hands and plants a kiss on Sherlock’s before saying his final goodnight.

Sherlock falls asleep hours later, John’s heartbeat in his ear, the taste of love like ash on his tongue.


	21. “I could do this all day.”

Morning finds John alone in bed. 

He searches the other side of the bed blindy, his hand finding only empty, already-cold sheets. He doesn’t fully wake just yet, unable to stop himself from playing over the events of yesterday. He’s still not sure how exactly things escalated to this point. He had thought telling Sherlock about the letter was the best option, starting their relationship with trust, with no secrecy. But now he isn’t certain that had been the best choice. 

Hold it together, Watson.

No matter what happened or how Sherlock had acted the day before, he is going to make sure today is different. And for starters, no staying at the Airbnb all day. They need to go out, to do what people usually do on holiday, distract themselves to better find each other when coming home. Sherlock hadn’t said much about the places he wanted to visit but in South Africa, a sarafi has to be on the list. 

Breathing out slowly, John properly wakes up. He gets to his feet, putting on some pants and allowing himself another second or so before opening the door. Sherlock looks up from the sofa immediately, eyes going from John’s feet to his face before looking back at his book. Not letting that get to him, John moves towards him and leans in for a small kiss on his temple.

“Morning,” he smiles, letting his feelings show as much as possible.

Sherlock hums his reply, still not looking back at him. John suppresses a sigh.

“Breakfast?” he asks, going into the kitchen area.

“Not hungry.”

“I was thinking of going on a safari today,” John continues, putting the kettle on. “I saw a flyer about the Lion and Rhino Park in one of the drawers here. Could be fun, yeah?”

“I don’t know about fun,” Sherlock replies. “But it was on my list.”

“So that’s a yes?”

Sherlock looks up, studying him for a long moment. John doesn’t hide a thing, letting show just how eager he is to properly kiss him, eyes falling to Sherlock’s lips. 

“It is,” Sherlock finally says, focusing back on his journal.

John leaves his tea aside, walking back towards him and placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He waits until he’s certain Sherlock has forgotten entirely about his journal before leaning down slowly enough to give him the time to pull away. Eyes fluttering closed, he pours out all that he can’t bring himself to say yet. He feels Sherlock relaxing just a little, leaning into the kiss and sighing when they break apart.

“Let’s get ready and we’ll have time to have lunch there, too,” John suggests, still very close.

“There is a restaurant not far that’s highly recommended,” Sherlock breathes out.

“Perfect,” John smiles, leaning in for another kiss. “Ready in twenty?”

He abandons Sherlock on the sofa, feeling suddenly much more hopeful. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long. The instant they step out of the Airbnb, Sherlock is back to his strange behavior. He spends the entire ride to the park on his phone, typing and typing, not once looking up at him. John keeps his mouth shut, thinking back on the way Sherlock’s lips had moved against his just this morning. Someone who doesn’t want a relationship doesn’t kiss back that way, right? 

And yet, visiting the park doesn’t seem to improve any of it. As much as Sherlock seems to enjoy each activity, he’s always walking two steps ahead of John and moving away as soon as they’re standing too close. Still, John pushes in. There isn’t a chance their relationship is going to crumble only by them trying to be together. He knew - always imagined - that building something so intimate with Sherlock would require work, and he is more than prepared for it. He can’t let himself think they’ve already destroyed what little foundation they’ve built in the last two days.

“Look,” he says after Sherlock tries to escape him again. “You can pet lion cubs.”

Sherlock stops on his way to the rhino area, eyes shining with excitement. 

“Want to do it?” John asks, barely keeping himself from kissing him right now.

“Considering it’s now close to lunch time, less people are gonna be waiting in line, so I’d say now is our best chance,” Sherlock replies, already walking away.

Breathing out deeply, John catches up with him before he disappears. 

Turns out the cubs might have not been his brightest idea. Even though Sherlock seems to be enjoying it tremendously, John can’t help but feel a low anger build in his abdomen. Watching Sherlock right now shouldn’t make him feel all this love mixed with sadness. He should be able to take Sherlock’s hand and let their laced fingers stroke the sleeping cubs. He should be able to smile and joke and tease Sherlock about bringing one home. But instead, he’s alone on his side, unable to focus on what he’s doing, too caught in his own thoughts. 

“That was brilliant!” Sherlock exclaims when their time is up. 

“Did you notice the difference in softness between the two?” 

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock nods, his excitement contagious in the end. “I’m gonna need to research that as soon as we’re back in Lon—”

He stops, a hand coming to cover his stomach as it rumbles for long seconds.

“Come on,” John laughs. “Time to eat, it seems. You really should have eaten breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry, John.”

“Even so,” John replies, bumping Sherlock’s shoulder with his. “I could have make us something nice.”

A playful smile blooms on Sherlock’s lips and it seems that he’s about to say something but the moment passes, and soon he’s closing off again. John doesn’t say anything, too afraid he’ll make things worse. They find the restaurant Sherlock was talking about quickly, finding it closer than expected. They are seated in front of a majestic view, John barely able to concentrate on his menu for a long moment. But Sherlock’s stomach soon reminds him with another rumble the reason they’re here. They order shortly after, John leaning back into his chair, looking around.

“Deductions?”

Sherlock meets his eyes, studying. 

“It’s been a while,” John adds, hating how he apparently needs to justify himself. “What about the two women over there?”

Sherlock’s gaze turns to them for barely a few seconds before saying, “Best friends since childhood. One recently divorced. The other doesn’t know how to tell her she made a mistake. It’s going to drive them apart. They’ve barely talked to each other since they got here.”

John nods, looking for another target. “The old man over there?”

“Used to work here, doesn’t know what to do with his life now. He comes every day for lunch; the restaurant never makes him pay. He’s thinking of asking for his old job back but he’s too ashamed to ask.”

“Brilliant,” John breathes, offering Sherlock a warm smile. “What about the couple there?”

Sherlock remains silent for a long minute, eyes going from the couple to John and back. 

“He’s deeply in love with her but she isn’t returning his feelings. He’s still hoping, which explains the lunch date. She doesn’t know how to tell him, so she’s hoping he’ll get the message at some point.”

John falls silent, suddenly not really wanting to continue playing. He stares at the couple, trying to find any similarities between the woman’s behavior and Sherlock’s. Is that it, then? Is Sherlock trying to tell him he doesn’t love him? But then, the letter. He wouldn’t have written it if he hadn’t meant— Oh. Of course. He said so himself, didn’t he, on the first day John got here? He had been writing down all the things he needed to store away. All the things he needed to move on from.

His feelings, apparently. 

“Is that like us, then?” he finds himself asking, an edge of anger in his voice.

Sherlock’s eyes are cold on him, “You tell me.”

They go quiet.

They don’t say much more for the entire lunch, nor for the ride back home. John, perfectly aware of his own state, doesn’t want to make things worse. If Sherlock feels this way, no matter how much it’s going to hurt, then John has no right to impose his own feelings on him. They’ve spent a lifetime not talking. He’s too tired to simply keep on going this way. Still, he waits until Sherlock closes the door of the Airbnb behind him before asking:

“What is going on, Sherlock?”

Sherlock passes by him without replying, but John catches him by the arm. He lets go quickly, Sherlock’s eyes focused on him now.

“Things were going well, weren’t they?” he asks, still not getting a reply. “But you suddenly changed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, John.”

“Don’t, please. I could do this all day. I heard what you said to that girl.” 

Sherlock turns around, walking away.

“Christ, Sherlock, if you don’t want to be with me, just say so!”

Sherlock stops, back still turned to him. John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

“But you’re gonna have to say the words,” he says, quiet. “Because I’m not leaving until you do.”

Time stretches around them. John is certain it’s his own heartbeat that’s echoing in the room. Please, he finds himself pleading. Just turn around and kiss me. But Sherlock isn’t moving, isn’t breathing, it seems, and with a voice so quiet it might have been a murmur, he finally says,

“I don’t want to be with you.”

The blow, as silent as it is, hits John directly in the stomach, taking all the air out of him and making his knees tremble. One hand coming to steady himself on the chair nearby, he inhales deeply, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Alright,” he says, half out of his mind. “I’ll just pack and go, then.”

Sherlock remains deadly still in the middle of the living room when John walks past him, legs shaking with the effort. He doesn’t linger longer than necessary, grabbing clothes and toiletries, and throwing it all inside his suitcase. He doesn’t cast a single look towards Sherlock on his way out, too afraid of what he might do. 

With his goodbye stuck in his throat, he closes the door on all he ever wanted, what he always wished for and is now gone.


	22. “So... I just realised... that I’ve been shot.”

As soon as the door slams shut, Sherlock’s brain goes entirely offline. He’s thankful for this ever-present defense mechanism, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to cope with the alternative right this second.

He remains in the middle of the living room, motionlessly blank. There’s nothing he wants to say or do or think. He just wants to stay there, denying the past and the future and, more than anything, the present.

But, as with anything, it doesn’t last. The very split second his emotions come rushing back, he lets out a tiny gasp, which blows into a sob. After that, he can’t contain a single piece of it. It comes rushing out in heaves, as grand as the loss he’s feeling. The magnitude of it astonishes him. He always knew that losing John Watson would be a hard blow, yes, but he never imagined that all it would take was a few days for his absolute undoing to become a reality.

Did he do the right thing? He wants John to be happy but he’s now realising that he can’t keep John happy if he only gets to have a piece of John. He tried, God knows he did, to school his feelings and to be okay with just having some of John, but he couldn't do it. He made John sad and anxious and angry, and he hated every second of doing those things. He hated the fact that he could inflict any of that upon the one person he wants everything of the opposite for. 

As he drops to his knees on the rug, he can’t help but wonder whether his call was completely wrong. He has no idea what to do in these situations, because he’s a complete and utter arse when it comes to romantic entanglements. He knows it. John knows it. 

And yet, here they are, in the very mess he wanted so badly to avoid. Why they entrusted their happiness and hearts to his care, he has no idea. 

Nevertheless, as horrible as the situation is and as heartbroken as he knows he will be for the rest of his life, he can’t find it in himself to be regretful that they tried. He can’t regret having had John, even with the way it had been and ended. The feel of his lips, his hands, his embrace. All of it had been worth it. He had always scoffed at the adage that ‘it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ but he finally understands it. He knows now what everybody is always clambering for and even committing heinous crimes over. He knows what it all means. He also knows how easy it is to let it go south.

And he absolutely will never forgive himself for it. The realisation dawns on him like the sun rising, so natural and obvious. He did this. He messed it up. He threw it away. He made a mistake. His fault. His doing.

Everything he thought he had learnt over the past few years has amounted to nothing. He’s still the clueless little boy and the unlovable teenager and the defiant young adult and the defensive adult that he has always been. He thought that John had permanently altered that, but all he had done was penetrated it for a short while. 

His only concern now, really, is how John must be feeling. After everything he has been through, the last thing he needed was this. First he lost Mary, and now he has lost Sherlock.

At the thought, he makes a decision. He can’t let John think that Sherlock won’t be in his life anymore. No matter what happened or didn’t happen, he can’t allow John to walk away from this as broken as he feels. He knows John doesn’t love him but, regardless of that, John did want to be with him. He’s starting to think he needs to get over his excessive expectations - he doesn’t need John to be head-over-heels besotted with him. Why can’t it be enough to just be together, in whatever capacity? Why can’t that satisfy him?

He knows it will be difficult, but he makes up his mind, there and then, to at least try.

He gathers his resolve, wipes his tears and stands up.

It won’t be easy, but nothing will be more worth it. He knows that.

He gathers his wallet, phone and the keys and he rushes out the door, ordering an Uber. 

One minute. That’s sixty seconds too long for his liking. He waits at the main gate, ants in his pants, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Patience has never been his virtue - nobody in his life could accuse him of that.

Once he’s in the Uber, he is sure his rating is going to drop by the way he keeps rushing the driver, instructing him to take a quicker route and to be less mindful of the rules of the road.

“Everybody knows those rules are only for commoners with no brain. Can we not get there any faster?” he urges, bouncing his knee up and down.

“I can’t drive like a taxi driver,” the man says, referring to the minibus taxis whose drivers seem, in general, either ignorant or unconcerned with the rules of the road. “I have to keep my rating up.”

“I’ll rate you lower if you don’t get me there within the next fifteen minutes.”

“But the airport is at least twenty minutes from here,” the man complains, but Sherlock can’t find it in him to feel any sort of sympathy for him. He needs to get there. Now.

Within seventeen minutes, they’re -  _ finally  _ \- pulling up to the departures entrance and Sherlock rushes out the car without so much as a thank you.

He runs into the airport, lasering his focus in on where he needs to go. John could be anywhere by now. He just needs to see him, to look him right in the eyes and tell him that he’s sorry. That he would do anything for him. That he would take it all back if it means —

His thoughts are interrupted by the man in question. He’s standing near the self-check-in kiosk with his luggage, looking like an absolute wreck. Sherlock feels his heart clench at the sight of him, at the fact that he could ever make John look that way. 

He runs towards him, not wanting to waste a moment longer.

“John!” he calls out when he’s close enough.

John looks up, a mixture of confusion, joy, anger, and, ultimately, sadness written across his features.

“Sherlock,” he says softly, expectantly.

“John, I. I need to talk to you. Can we talk?”

“About what?” John asks coldly. 

“About us,” Sherlock says, voice firm before he can lose his resolve. “I need to talk to you about us.”

“What  _ about _ us?” John states more than asks. His face is composed, masking anything that may be underneath. Sherlock can tell he’s hurt, though, by the way his eyes tighten and his mouth twitches downward. “There isn’t even an ‘us’, is there?”

“Well, that’s just it, John. I. I want to say I’m sorry. I was wrong. I was so wrong to expect anything from you. It was ridiculously stupid of me to think that you owe me anything. I know you don’t feel the same way that I do, the way I spelled it all out in my letters, and that’s fine. It’s more than fine, I just—”

“Sherlock.”

“I just want to make sure that you know that I’m okay with that. I can live with that, really. I don’t need any—”

“Sherlock, wait a sec—”

“—thing more than you’re willing to give. I don’t care that you don’t feel the same way that I do. I don’t care that you don’t want to come back to Baker Street and live with me. I don’t care about any of it. I just want to be with you, in any way you’ll have me, even in a limited capacity, because, John, the two times that I have died were nothing,  _ nothing _ compared to this. I remember it like it was yesterday… I’m standing in Magnussen’s office and Mary turns around and pulls the trigger, and so... I just realised… that I’ve been shot… by your wife, no less, and all I can think about is how deeply I regret never having told you how I feel about you; that was my only thought, John… and the only one that persisted, even in the hospital, even afterwards, even now, after all this time, and I’m so so—”

“Sherlock, shutup for a second!” John snaps.

Sherlock closes his mouth with a click. Where had he misstepped? He begins to replay what he had just said in his mind, looking for the problem words. Was it bringing up being dead? Mary? All of it in general?

“No, not like that,” John says, gently placing a hand on his jaw to turn his face and look him in the eye. “I just. Before you finish this stupid, ridiculous speech, I’d like you to consider one thing: what if you’re not operating with all of the facts? Aren’t you the one always scolding us and explaining how we shouldn’t jump to conclusions or make assumptions without having all of the facts?”

Sherlock’s brow creases in bewilderment. “What do you mean, ‘all of the facts’? What could I possibly be omitting?”

“Well,” John says softly, moving closer. “What if… what if the way you say you feel in your letters is exactly the way I feel? What if I feel it even more so? What if I don’t want you in any limited capacity, but all of you? Every last bit of you, if you’ll have me?”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks a few times in rapid succession, his breathing seeming to have stopped. Unexpected. The one last deduction missing to form the full, sublime picture.

“Breathe, love.”

John leans forward, cradling Sherlock’s head between his hands and kissing him, right there, in the middle of the busy airport. Time seems to stop for several long moments, his whole world culminating in the little moment, the weight of it not lost on him, not ever again.

“Love,” Sherlock huffs out in wonder as they pull apart.

“Yes,” John says simply, taking both of Sherlock’s hands in his. “Love. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Very much, in fact.”

“Really?” Sherlock whispers.

“Yes,” John says again, leaning closer to offer Sherlock a small, chaste kiss on his stupefied mouth. “Really.”

“Well. I feel the same. I love you, too. But you already know that,” Sherlock says, trying his best to fight through his bashfulness.

“Yeah, I do, but it’s good to hear it.”

They stand there, looking at each other, smiling their most dopey smiles and Sherlock is so in love his heart hurts, but he’s glad of it this time.

“C’mon,” John says, taking his hand proudly and pulling him away. “Let’s go book our flight home.”

“To London?”

“Yeah. To Baker Street. Two hundred and twenty one B,” John says, imitating Mycroft’s haughty accent.

Sherlock laughs, bumping shoulders with him as they walk to the ticket desk. “You’re coming home?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m coming home. And I’m not going anywhere after that. We’re going to do this, yeah? Together, or not at all.”

“Together, or not at all,” Sherlock echoes, nodding.


	23. "This. This is what I always wanted."

At the ticket desk, Sherlock suggests that they leave on Christmas Eve, allowing them to have a bit more time together in the sun before returning to London to celebrate the holiday with their loved ones. John agrees with a goofy, lovesick grin, and Sherlock has to physically restrain himself from leaning down for a thorough snog just then. Even so, he does manage to drop a quick, covert kiss on John’s neck.

They rent another car and head back to the Airbnb, Sherlock eager for them to be completely alone. In the car, the tension between them is palpable, thick like honey and just as sweet. It’s nothing like the tension that has been haunting them of late. It’s more like a drunken stag night, or a laugh at the bottom of the stairs. It’s like love.

They arrive at the flat after what feels like an interminable amount of time, the wait not unpleasant in that it only serves to amp up the excitement for the inevitable reward at the end of it.

As soon as they’re in the flat, Sherlock turns to John and kisses him up against the wall, barely bothering to close the door behind them. John kisses back just as hungrily, only leaving his lips to kiss a wet path down Sherlock’s neck and throat while he unbuttons his shirt and shorts.

“Mmm, off, off, off,” John says between kisses, trying to push Sherlock’s shorts down without breaking apart. Sherlock obliges, kicking them off with his feet and pulling his shirt off of his shoulders gracelessly as he toes off his shoes and socks. It isn’t elegant, but it’ll do.

“You too,” he replies, tugging on John’s t-shirt. 

They break apart for what feels like way too long when, in reality, it’s only a few seconds, and John divests of his clothing, too.

They look at each other for a moment, both in their pants and nothing else.

“Bedroom?” Sherlock asks, suddenly feeling exposed.

“After you,” John replies, grabbing Sherlock around the waist and following after him.

They make it to the bedroom, where Sherlock flops down onto the bed. John kneels over him, a fond expression on his face and a small well of tears lining his eyes.

“I love you. So much,” he says fiercely.

Sherlock can’t not be kissing him anymore. He pulls John down on top of him, rutting up against him as he kisses every available part of him.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he intones without thought, drowning in it.

John suddenly pulls away, placing a hand over Sherlock’s heart and looking into his eyes. They look at each other for a while, just like that, everything they’ve never said and, even better, the things that they have, passing wordlessly between them.

John leans down, less urgent this time but no less passionate, and kisses Sherlock deeply.

He pulls back, looking in Sherlock’s eyes and stroking his hair, tucking it behind his ear. “What do you want?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment. Whispers, “Everything,” in the hushed sanctuary of their bedroom.

John groans in response, grinding down against Sherlock, their cocks rubbing together. They rut against each other, desperately whining and sloppily kissing every sliver of skin their mouths can reach.

John trails his hand down Sherlock’s torso, slipping a finger in the waistband of his pants and waiting.

Sherlock nods, leaning up for a kiss as John pulls his pants down, which makes for interesting coordination.

Once his pants are off, John strokes his length, causing him to elicit the most obscene groans from somewhere deep in Sherlock’s belly.

“Ah!” If John’s responses are anything to go by, he is clearly as turned on as he is right now.

Sherlock leans down and pulls John’s pants off, too, which earns him another exclamatory, “Ah!”

“Hold on,” John says, stilling them. “I have something…”

Sherlock deduces his meaning and laughs, a deep rumble from his chest right into John’s mouth.

“Go get it, then.”

John stand up to rummage in his luggage briefly, but the loss of contact makes Sherlock more impatient than ever.

“John,” he moans, “hurry uuuuuup!”

“God, you’re a menace,” John responds, standing over the bed with the little bottle of lube and a fond smile reaching his eyes.

“I need you,” Sherlock all but begs. “Please.”

John relents, climbing on top of him again. He works his slick hand over Sherlock’s cock, again and again. When it feels like he’s about to come, he pulls away, spreading Sherlock’s legs and lowering his hand towards his entrance, seeking permission.

Sherlock nods again. “Please,” he whines.

John teases his entrance for a while, making something primal within him spark to life. When Sherlock is almost crying with want, he finally,  _ finally _ inserts one finger, kissing the breath out of him.

“More!” Sherlock demands soon after, hitting his heel against John’s back.

“Demanding prat,” John whispers against his neck, kissing urgent, wet patterns there.

He slowly inserts a second finger, twisting his hand just so until Sherlock hitches off the bed, groaning in intense arousal.

“Do it again,” he gasps, like John is a miracle (he is).

John chuckles lowly, turning his mouth towards Sherlock’s sensitive nipples. Between that and his clever fingers, he doesn’t know where to focus his attention and starts to feel overwhelmed.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, and John pulls back immediately. Sherlock closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths.

“Do you want to stop?” John asks, placing a soft kiss on his sweaty temple.

“No, no,  _ God, _ no,” he rushes out, earning him another chuckle.

“I just…” he doesn’t know how to explain what he needs, what he wants. One look into John’s eyes, though, and he knows he can trust him with this. With anything. He perseveres: “I just need a second. It’s… a  _ lot. _ ”

“Hmm,” John considers. “Too much?”

“A little,” Sherlock says, lowering his head.

“Hey,” John says soothingly, lifting his chin up to face him. “It’s okay. I understand. The first time… My first time went a lot worse than this.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I nearly came in my pants just from kissing. You’re doing great. Better than great, actually.”

Sherlock smiles.

“Can I kiss you?” John asks.

“Always.”

John leans down, planting the softest press of lips on the side of Sherlock’s mouth. He leans in to do it again, and Sherlock turns his head, meeting John’s lips with his and deepening the kiss into something more. Before long, it turns heated again and Sherlock is rubbing himself on John.

“What do you need?” John is asking between kisses. “What do you want?”

“What do  _ you  _ want?” Sherlock counters.

“This. This is what I always wanted,” John replies, stroking Sherlock’s sides and kissing him on each cheek. “You?”

“I want,” he responds when they part for air, “I want what we were doing just… just less… just one thing at a time… maybe…”

John kisses a stripe down his chest, teasing his entrance once more. 

“No,” he says softly, making John stop. “I need… the real thing…”

John smiles. He kneels between Sherlock’s open legs and smiles and smiles, his eyes so full of love that Sherlock can’t believe his luck.

He lines himself up with Sherlock’s entrance and inches in, slowly, slowly, slowly. They keep their eyes locked the entire time, the experience so viscerally novel and exceptional that tears spring to his eyes, unbidden.

“Alright?” John asks.

“More than.”

John nods, seeming to understand and share the sentiment himself.

Eventually, Sherlock loses his patience, pushing down and taking in all of John’s cock at once. John gasps and then chuckles.

“You really are, ah, an impatient bastard, you, ah, you know that, right?”

“Mmm… Fuck me, John,” Sherlock groans in response, to which John gasps again and begins to thrust in earnest.

Sherlock can’t believe that sex could be this good. All he feels is John and John and  _ love _ . He is so surrounded by love and by John and he couldn’t escape it even if he wanted to and he doesn’t want to.

The moment John grabs hold of his cock between them, he’s gone, all his inhibitions - the little remaining - completely shattered. He groans until, just like that, his climax comes, whiting out his mind with complete and utter bliss and glorious relief.

When he comes to himself, he’s still chanting John’s name like a prayer, like a mantra, like a promise.


	24. "Careful not to break th- Oh."

The feeling of lips on his nape stirs John out of his sleep. He sighs, smiling as he stretches lazily. Sherlock’s body is warm, very warm, against his back. So that’s how it feels then, being ridiculously happy. He could get used to the feeling, really quick. Actually, he might already have. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sherlock says, voice rough.

“Do you, now?” John asks, smiling even more while turning in Sherlock’s arms. He pushes back the hair on Sherlock’s forehead, leaning in for a lazy kiss. “What am I thinking about?”

“You are obviously wondering if a second attempt at penetrative sex will be as brilliant as the first one,” Sherlock breathes out, sounding much too serious.

John bursts out laughing. “Who would have thought that you saying the words ‘penetrative sex’ would be such a turn-on?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, rolling his hips very suggestively at the same time. John’s laugh turns into a moan, fingers tightening around Sherlock’s hair. He spreads his leg wider, desperate for more.

“Careful not the break the — Oh” 

The noise of something breaking echoes in the room. 

“What was that?” John pants. 

“Just a mug,” Sherlock replies, already kissing him back.

“What was it doing in our bed?”

Sherlock sighs, looking at him and thrusting his hips against John’s very slowly. “Does it really matter?”

John shakes his head, moaning. Sherlock’s lips find his neck, kissing over his pulse point over and over again. John can’t help the whimper that escapes him, shifting just so Sherlock’s thigh is pressed directly against his erection. 

“Just so you know,” he says, already out of breath, “we might not get to the penetrative part this morning.” 

Sherlock smiles against his neck, “Fine by me.”

Words are lost on them after that. Sherlock pulls away just enough to kiss him, lips moving against his slowly. Hands sliding down from Sherlock’s hair to his back, John lets his fingers trace the scars there, as softly as he can. Each roll of their hips brings them closer and closer, and John can’t help but think he might never be happier than he is right in this instant. That’s all he wants, mornings in bed spent making love. 

“I love you,” he breathes into a kiss. “I love you.”

“John,” Sherlock moans, fingers digging into his lower back as his movements become more and more uncontrolled. 

“You feel amazing, absolutely amazing.”

Sherlock goes very still as he comes, spilling between their stomachs and sending John off the edge shortly after. 

“Amazing,” he smiles into another kiss. 

“You’ve said that already,” Sherlock teases, body going pliant in his arms.

“I could stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock replies.

“Deal,” John chuckles. “Now, not that I want to spoil the mood, but our plane is leaving in five hours.”

“Boring,” Sherlock sighs, going back to kiss his neck.

“Maybe. But think about it, we could be doing this at home, in our bed.”

Sherlock pulls back to look at him, looking so very soft and vulnerable that John has to kiss him again. 

“I love you,” Sherlock breathes out. 

It does take them another thirty minutes to get out of bed but, with Sherlock’s efficient method of packing, they end up at the airport with just enough time to relax before the flight. They find their gate quickly, John unable to stop himself from looking around and poking Sherlock in the side.

“You do realise you chasing me here is one of the most romantic tropes in movies?”

Sherlock glances up at him from over his journal. “Is it, now?”

“It really is,” John says, leaning closer to steal a kiss.

“Well, maybe I am a romantic after all.”

John laughs, shaking his head, “I never doubted that.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but John can still see the softness in there. 

“I will blame it on you if anyone ever notices,” he says.

“Fine by me.”

Sherlock kisses him again. John promises himself he’ll make sure everyone knows this side of Sherlock, but maybe keep the best parts just to himself. 

“I’m gonna get something to eat, want anything?”

Sherlock shakes his head, already back to reading his journal. John takes his time going from shop to shop, lingering in front of some souvenirs, wondering whether he should take something back for Mrs Hudson. She is probably going to be thrilled about him moving back in to Baker Street, but John still has a lot to apologize for. He decides on a magnet, very much aware that just the act of bringing something back will do the trick. He also gets a sandwich and some chips, plus some biscuits for Sherlock just in case. 

Back at the gate, Sherlock is still lost in his journal. It must be his third reread by now, but John doesn’t comment on it. He can’t wait for the detailed summary Sherlock is probably going to give him soon. He busies himself with a book too, saying nothing when Sherlock ends up eating most of his chips. By the time they have to board the plane, John is downright exhausted. He silently thanks Mycroft for their sudden change to first class even though it makes Sherlock sulk for the entire take-off and then some. 

“Come on,” John says. “It was nice of him.”

“He’s always sticking his nose in my business.”

“I know, love,” John replies, heart warming up at the look Sherlock gives him. 

“Should I be thinking of a pet name for you, too?”

“That’s entirely up to you, I really don’t mind either way.”

Sherlock nods, “I’ll think about it.”

“I might be a bit repetitive, but I am so deeply in love with you it’s getting ridiculous,” John sighs.

“There is no such thing as too in love,” Sherlock replies.

John kisses the small smile on his lips.

“What are we doing for Christmas? It is tomorrow, after all.”

Sherlock leans back into his seat. “I want to spend it at home, with you. At least Christmas morning.”

“Sounds perfect,” John says, having already guessed that much. “Why just morning?”

Sherlock looks shy all of a sudden, fingers playing with his armrest. 

“Sherlock, what is it?”

“Well, my parents insisted we go visit, for lunch.”

“Oh,” John says.

“We don’t have to, I can tell them no,” Sherlock replies, talking too fast.

“No, no,” John says, shaking his head. “Don’t. They’ll be thrilled to see you.”

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, realisation drawing down his face. 

“John,” he says, with that voice John knows all too well. “You don’t have to worry about them. All mummy kept asking was if you were coming, too.”

“Still,” John says, feeling uneasy. “They have every right to resent me for all I’ve done to you.”

“I can assure you they don’t,” Sherlock says, taking his hand and holding it tight. “They are going to be delighted to hear about this.”

He raises John’s hand to his lips, kissing it softly. John relaxes into the touch, sighing.

“Text her when we land, tell her we’ll be there.”

Sherlock smiles at him, a bright smile making it all so easy again. The rest of the flight passes strangely quickly. John finds a movie or two, Sherlock falling asleep next to him in the middle of the first one. He doesn’t wake until John is shaking him for the landing, then he remains half out of it until they have to stand and go. John grabs his hand and takes care of getting their luggage back, leading Sherlock down hallways and exits until they’re out in the cold air.

“I’ve forgotten it can be this cold,” John sighs, already shivering. “I should have put on my coat.”

“I packed it in this,” Sherlock replies, pointing to the small carry-on bag. 

“Brilliant,” John smiles, kissing him quickly before retrieving it. 

They find a cab without having to wait too long, Sherlock already busy on his phone. John tries not to think of all he’s going to have to do to properly move out of his place, wondering if Sherlock would mind if Mycroft helped. He could always ask later, when Sherlock is too happy to sulk. Locked inside his own head, he doesn’t realise they’ve stopped until Sherlock is leaning forwards to pay the driver.

“We’re not there yet,” John remarks, looking outside the window.

“I was thinking we could walk the last few streets,” Sherlock says shyly.

“Great idea,” John smiles.

“I’ve paid the driver to take our luggage to Baker Street; Mrs Hudson is waiting there,” Sherlock explains when they’re both out. “That way I can do this.”

He takes John’s hand in his, pulling him closer. 

“I see,” John smiles. “You just wanted to walk hand in hand. Romantic.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, smiling, “It might be something I’ve been thinking about. A lot.”

John holds his hand tighter. “Good thing I’ve been thinking about it, too.”


	25. “Merry Christmas, love.”

No matter how many times John dared to imagine a moment like this, nothing had came close to reality. Adding the fact that it is Christmas morning and that Sherlock is currently very much naked while kissing the breath out of him, John can only give and give and give.

“Merry Christmas, love,” he manages to say between two attacks of Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Merry Christmas, John.”

“I should say, I am terribly happy right now,” John chuckles, wrapping both legs around Sherlock’s middle and staring up at him. 

“Because it’s Christmas?” Sherlock asks, a teasing smile on his lips.

“More because you are wrapped around me, I’d say, but, sure, Christmas makes it even better.”

Sherlock dives in for another burning kiss, and even though everything in this situation is screaming for some amazing morning sex, John finds that he is more inclined to simply cuddle with Sherlock in what is now their bed all day. He kisses him a bit harder, hoping to pour out all of the feelings currently mixed up inside his head. One of his fingers finds the largest scar on Sherlock’s back, starting around his hips all the way to his shoulder, and he follows it for a long moment, up and down until their kisses turn into something much more soft and lazy. 

“I got that one the day just before Mycroft came to get me,” Sherlock says in a whisper. “I didn’t realise it was so big until I saw it. I could barely feel anything at the time; my body had begun to give up in me.”

“I am so sorry,” John whispers back, closing his eyes to fight back tears. 

“I don’t hate them, John,” Sherlock says, kissing along his jaw and up his right cheek. “Those marks represent my journey back to you.”

John chokes up on a sob, half smiling, too. 

“Please, don’t ever stop being so romantic, I’m loving it more and more,” he says, holding Sherlock just a little tighter. “I love you.”

Sherlock smiles down at him, leaning in for another kiss. 

“I want to give you my present now,” he says.

John can feel his face lighting up. “When did you find time to get me something?”

“When did you?” Sherlock counters, winking at him before rolling back to his side of the bed.

John turns to look at him get out of bed, bare arse on display. He doesn’t bother to suppress a needy sigh. 

“As much as I wish we had time, darling, we have to be at my parent’s by noon.” 

“Darling,” John smiles, rolling onto his back and stretching lazily. “I love that.”

“I thought I’d try it on for a while,” Sherlock replies, throwing him his robe. “Now, come on, time for presents!”

John hurries to follow him, finding that the fire has mysteriously been lit. Mrs Hudson’s doing for certain. She had been absolutely thrilled to see them both the day before, and even more so when John had said he was moving back in. Explaining to her why had resulted in tears and hugs so tight that John’s muscles still remember her embrace. 

“This is for you,” Sherlock says, forcing John back to the present. 

He sits down next to him, by the fire, and takes the rather large gift in Sherlock’s hand. He’s surprised by how light it turns out to be, and with a wide grin, he sets to unwrapping it. 

“Sherlock,” he breathes out, hands slightly shaking. “This is beautiful.”

“I saw it in the antique shop,” Sherlock explains, looking down at the medical case. “I made sure to take it away before you could see it.”

“Thank you so much, love,” John says, putting it aside so that he can kiss Sherlock for long minutes. “I adore it.”

“I’m happy you do,” Sherlock says, eyes going to the gift next to John’s feet. 

“Alright, alright,” John laughs, handing it to him. “Now yours.”

Sherlock unwraps it as quickly as he can, it seems, eyes going wide at the sight of the four journals. 

“How did you— I thought there was only one.”

“I asked the owner while you were getting us the cinema tickets,” John explains. “He had more in a box in the back, so I took them all.”

Sherlock looks up at him, his emotions so raw and out in the open that it takes all of John’s breath away. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock breathes out. “Thank you.”

They end up kissing a lot more right there, wrapping paper getting in the way and making them both laugh like the happy idiots we are, John says directly against Sherlock’s lips. As expected, they are forced to shower and get ready really fast, being late for lunch already. Still, they manage to get inside the car thirty-seven minutes later than planned.

“Not that bad,” John says, one hand automatically going for Sherlock’s thigh. 

“Mummy is expecting us to be late, I’m sure,” Sherlock says, starting the engine.

“Did you take the bottle of wine?” John asks, peeking into the back of the car.

“Yes, and the gift too.”

John relaxes into his seat, watching the road and breathing it all in. The domesticity of all of it is making his heart beat just a little faster. He glances at Sherlock, focused on the road, and smiles.

“I’m glad we’re doing this.”

“You’ll see,” Sherlock says. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you,” he smiles, looking back at the road. “Now, why don’t you tell me about that first journal?”

Somehow, Sherlock has enough material to talk about for the rest of the entire trip, explaining to John in great detail the first failures of the author and, of course, his breakthroughs, too. John listens carefully, finding that he’d rather like to read the journal too, after all. Sherlock is just finishing on what he expects to read in the new journals when they park in front of the Holmes’ house. 

“Sherlock! John!”

“Mummy,” Sherlock smiles.

Violet Holmes greats him with warm hugs as soon as they’re out of the car, Sherlock’s father not far behind.

“Sherlock, my boy, Merry Christmas. And to you too, John.”

“Thank you,” John replies, accepting another hug gladly. “We brought wine for the meal.”

“Oh, you shouldn't have, dear,” Violet smiles, accepting the gift. 

“It’s a ‘thank you’ for having us,” John says.

“It’s a pleasure to have you both here, John, you should know that.”

“I told him so,” Sherlock says, a complicit smile on his lips. 

John glares at him, but he’s unable to stop smiling, too. They all get into the house and go directly into the dining room where the table is already set.

“This is beautiful, Violet,” John says, sitting down next to Sherlock.

“Thank you, John.”

Sherlock squeezes his hand under the table, and John smiles, silently thanking him. He knows he needs to relax but, for now, he is just waiting for the inevitable questions that are about to come. And yet, it isn’t until dessert that the conversation turns serious, Violet falling silent for a long moment before inhaling deeply.

“So, John, Sherlock told us you were moving back in.”

John tenses a little, Sherlock’s hand - still on his thigh - giving a squeeze. 

“I am, yes,” John replies, forcing himself to breathe in and out slowly.

“This is good news,” Violet says, her tone still somehow reserved. “What made you change your mind?”

John glances at Sherlock, “Sherlock and I talked, rather a lot actually, and it appears that we share the same feelings.”

“That much was rather obvious, yes.”

“Dad!”

“It’s alright,” John smiles. “We better get used to this; lots of people are going to react the same way.”

“So, this is serious?” Violet asks, eyes fixed on him.

John nods, “Very.”

“That is wonderful,” Violet finally smiles, and John can feel Sherlock relaxing next to him, too. “We are so very happy for the both of you.”

John turns to look at Sherlock, the look on his face betraying just how nervous he had also been the entire time. 

“I am so very happy, too,” he says, thinking about snogging Sherlock in front of his parents. 

“Let me go get dessert,” Sherlock’s father says, “and some champagne.”

The rest of the meal goes both very quickly and too slow at the same time. John lets in all sink in, feeling for the first time in a really long time as though he belongs. Sherlock, who obviously is reading it all on his face, spends most of the afternoon making sure he’s alright, and John loves him even more. 

He waits until they’re back in the car before saying, “Thank you for making this happen.”

“She invited us, John.”

“But you could have said no without asking me,” John says. 

“We agreed, no more secrets.”

John nods, “No more secrets.”


	26. "Where are your clothes?"

John can’t remember the last time he had such a good night’s sleep. He has no doubt it has everything to do with the fact that Sherlock is currently still fast asleep next to him, or that the events of yesterday put some of his worries at bay. Sherlock’s parents had been nothing but kind and open with him, welcoming him back as if his ex murderous wife hadn’t put a bullet in their son, and John had never felt so relieved. He knows he still has a lot to apologise for, and that Sherlock and him have a lot more to talk about, but it’s starting to feel as if they found the right way to safely go there. 

He turns on his side, looking at Sherlock for as long as he dares to. He has no idea if feeling this desperate to kiss him awake is normal after almost a week of being _them_ \- or sort of - but the feeling is right there, lodged in his chest, ready to burst out. Still, he forces himself to get out of bed as quietly as possible. Even though he already rested enough, Sherlock clearly needs more sleep. Besides, Mycroft had delivered all of his belongings in boxes yesterday evening. That had made Sherlock curse out loud several times and so John had managed to shut him up with some kissing and then much more than just that. 

Now was the perfect time to finally unpack and truly move back in. Starting with his books, CDs and DVDs, John slowly brings back small parts of himself into their living room. He puts down his computer on the table last, facing Sherlock’s, and smiles to himself. It might be a small detail, but those two computers on this very same table had once been the centre of his everyday life. A statement now true once again. Checking the time, he decides it well past sleeping time. Also, he’s definitely in need of some kissing action. Picking up the boxes full of clothing, he heads back to the bedroom.

Sherlock has moved to his side of the bed, still asleep it seems. John still moves silently around the room, making space in Sherlock’s closet for his own shirts, trousers and underwear. He leaves the socks aside, knowing Sherlock will kill him if he messes everything up. He’s in the middle of hanging his shirts when Sherlock suddenly stirs awake behind him.

“Morning, love,” John smiles, turning to glance at him.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” 

John hangs up his last pieces of clothing and turns to walk back to him. He crawls on top of him, pushing his hair back and leaning down slowly to kiss him. Sherlock’s arms come to circle his waist, trying to force him fall on top of him but John doesn’t give in, half laughing into the kiss. Sherlock changes his strategy then, his fingers now on John’s robe, trying to remove it quickly. 

“What are you trying to do, exactly?” John asks, grinning down at him. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock asks, one hand making its way under his shirt. “You are way too overdressed.”

“I am not,” John teases. “Not if we want to make it to our lunch date.”

“We don’t have a lunch date, darling.”

John leans in for another quick kiss. “We do now. I decided on it while watching you sleep.”

“Wouldn’t that be considered creepy?” Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

John pokes him in the stomach. “Bastard.”

Sherlock chuckles, using both legs to throw him off balance. John lands boneless on top of him, now completely trapped. Sherlock’s lips are on his neck, teeth grazing the soft skin. 

“Now,” he breathes. “This is much better.”

John gives in to his attacks, his robe and shirt not lasting a second more. Sherlock struggles a bit more with getting him under the covers, but once there, John finds himself being pulled back on top of him. 

“Perfect,” Sherlock smiles, spreading his legs wider.

John settles between them, Sherlock’s now obvious erection pressing against his own hardening cock. They kiss lazily for a long moment, hands travelling from chest to back to arse until it is almost too hot to breathe under the duvet. John pulls away, already panting, to stare down at Sherlock.

“Are you always going to be so demanding when it comes to sex?” 

Sherlock shrugs, “Maybe. Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all,” John smiles, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck and chest. “In fact, I’m loving it more and more.”

Sherlock’s answer gets lost in a moan when John’s lips find his nipple, teasing him for long seconds before moving to the other. Sherlock’s hands are now in his hair, holding tight as if to make sure John won’t move away, which he has no intention of doing anymore. When his own desire becomes too much to bear, John begins to rock their hips together slowly, loving the way Sherlock’s entire body seems to come alive under his. 

“John, John, you’re gonna need—”

John reaches out for the bedside drawer, crawling back up Sherlock’s body to kiss him at the same time. He lubes his fingers quickly, already teasing Sherlock’s entrance with one, all of their whimpers getting lost into yet another kiss. Sherlock digs his fingers into his shoulders, John getting the message quite clearly and pushing one finger in easily. 

“Am I always going to feel so desperate when it comes to sex?”

John chuckles, “Maybe. Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock replies, moaning at the breach of another finger. 

“Don’t tell me,” John teases. “You’re loving it more and more.”

Sherlock throws his head back, breathing out a loud, “Brilliant.” 

John adds a third finger, stretching Sherlock as thoroughly as he can. He can already feel his own pleasure building and building just at the sight of him, so breathtakingly beautiful. 

“Ready, love?”

Sherlock nods, apparently too lost for words already. John doesn’t waste any time lubing himself, and pushes in as slowly as he can, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s wide open ones. They don’t break eye contact for the first few thrusts, but the moment John finds his prostate, Sherlock’s entire body arches on the bed, pushing John even further inside him. After that, all control is a lost cause. John can only push in and out, focusing on every sound coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, desperately trying to hold back his orgasm. 

“John, John, John,” Sherlock is chanting, rocking back on each of his thrusts. 

Tiptoeing on the edge of climax, John slides a hand between them but barely has the time to wrap it around Sherlock before he’s coming and coming. The sight only brings John right where he needs to be, spending himself inside Sherlock while crying out his name. He lands on top of Sherlock, body going pliant. 

“We can’t doze off,” he says, still out of breath.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replies, obviously already doing so.

“We have a lunch date, remember?” John says, pulling away to kiss him back awake. “Can’t be late.”

Sherlock frowns at him, “Is it really that late already?”

“It is, yes,” John smiles. “I had been thinking we could go to Angelo’s. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to give us a candle for the table.”

“He is probably never going to make us pay for eating there ever again,” Sherlock says. 

John kisses him gently. “So, is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs for the sake of it. 

“Think about it,” John says. “Now we have to shower. Together.”

“Didn’t you say we were late already?”

John rolls to his side, sitting up. “You’re right. Better if I take it alone.”

He gets out of bed quickly, Sherlock cursing behind him. He doesn’t have the time to step into the bathtub before Sherlock is there with him. They end up only washing each other, even though Sherlock clearly has some other intentions. John is the first to get out, going to pick up some clothes before heading back to the bathroom only to find it empty. 

“Sherlock?”

“In here!”

John heads to the kitchen, “Sherlock! Where are your clothes?”

“I was hungry,” Sherlock replies, apparently not caring in the slightest about standing in the nude there. 

“You won’t be once we get to Angelo’s, remember?”

Sherlock nods but still takes another biscuit before heading to the bedroom. 

“You’ve unpacked,” he says, looking at the different boxes.

“Always knew you were a genius, love,” John teases him gently, hand coming to pinch his naked arsecheek. “Now, let’s get you dressed.”


	27. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

John wakes up with a startle, heart pounding and breath short. He waits for the usual pain in his leg or shoulder following a nightmare, but nothing comes. In fact, he can’t remember exactly what he was dreaming about. He looks around the room, taking in the familiar furniture and scent, his eyes dropping to the empty space next to him. Oh. That’s it, then. 

“Sherlock?”

No answer, silence only filling the room and, apparently, the entire flat.

“Sherlock?” John calls again, a bit worried now. He grabs his shirt and pants from the floor, putting them on quickly. “Sherlock, are you in there?”

He opens the bathroom door, heart sinking when he realises it’s empty. He goes to check the kitchen and living room, growing more and more worried by the second. He can’t think of anywhere Sherlock could have gone. They don’t have a case on, and they are planning to go get everything they need for New Year’s Eve this afternoon so, really, there isn’t a single bloody reason for Sherlock to disappear like this in the middle of the night.

With shaking hands, he hurries back to the bedroom to get his phone. That’s when he sees it, lying on the kitchen table: an abandoned pack of cigarettes. The answer comes to him in a flash and, without another second of hesitation, he puts his coat on and heads for the stairs. The icy air takes him by surprise and he blows into his hands, looking around before letting out a relieved sigh. Sherlock is right there, his back turned to him, looking down on the sleeping city. 

In two long strides, he goes to stand next to him, immediately seeking warmth by pressing himself against his side. He doesn’t say anything about the cigarette, nor the sudden trip to the rooftop in the middle of the night. In fact, John doesn’t say anything at all. He simply remains there, close enough to be able to follow Sherlock’s breathing. Silence stretches around them, like a comfortable blanket on both their shoulders. 

John takes in the sight in front of him, the Christmas lights shining everywhere, giving the city a certain look of wonder. He isn’t surprised to find himself comparing this particular view with a burning desert miles away. He doesn’t really remember each Christmas spent there; doesn’t really want to anyway. Especially the last one. He rather likes this view better, despite the cold infiltrating his every bone. London always had its charm, no matter what any Londoner would say. 

London has Sherlock Holmes and, just for that, John is more than happy to be here.

He leans in a bit closer, the scent of smoke slowly drifting away as Sherlock finishes his cigarette. John lets his eyes fall closed, head resting against Sherlock’s arm. Once again, he can’t help but wonder what he ever did to get to this moment right now. What he ever did to get to experience all that’s still going to happen. 

He smiles, picturing the two of them in this new facet of their relationship. There will be dates, like the one they had the day before, unable to stop grinning at each other. There will be more holidays, somewhere warm or deadly cold, but together. There will be fights, probably terrible ones once in a while, but there will also be makeups afterward. There will be cases to drive them mad or sleep deprived. There will be… 

John opens his eyes again, glancing up at Sherlock’s profile. 

Yes. There will be marriage, vows and promises made to the other. There will be planning and dancing and music, all for the right reasons this time. John finds himself wondering whether Sherlock would want something big, or rather private. If he’d want lilac or blue or even the dark shade of purple he seems to enjoy so much. If they’d do it in their home or outside, or even right here, on this very rooftop where it’s too cold to properly talk. It doesn’t really matter, any of it. John intends to spend the rest of his life with this brilliant madman, and marrying him is only another way to make it more official. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock’s voice is quiet, a whisper in the already too-silent air.

“Retirement,” John says, because naturally that’s what would follow dates and fights and cases. “Where we’d go, when we’d go, what we’d do with all our free time.”

Sherlock lets out a strange sound, not quite a word, not quite a sigh.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, just as quiet. “Why are we here? Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I’m just simply so happy,” Sherlock says. “Suspiciously happy.”

“That’s a good thing, love.”

Sherlock turns to look at him, “I don’t know if I can trust such a feeling.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

John guides his head just a little lower, depositing a chaste kiss on his lips.

“There is nothing wrong in feeling like this,” John says, meaning every word. “We’ve been waiting for years. It is perfectly normal to doubt if it’s real sometimes.”

“But it is,” Sherlock says. “Real, that is.”

“Yes,” John smiles. “Just like this bloody freezing weather is real. It’s a wonder it isn’t snowing yet.”

Sherlock laughs, leaning down for another kiss and taking his hand. “Back to bed?”

“Please.”

They go back downstairs and into their bedroom without letting go of each other. Falling silent again, John slowly undresses Sherlock, clothes after clothes, keeping his eyes fixed on his. The bed is somehow still warm, and John lets Sherlock snuggle into his arms with a relieved sigh. They remain like that, close and silent, for another long moment. John can feel himself dozing off, and so he brings Sherlock’s lips to his one more time.

“This happiness, love,” he breathes directly against Sherlock’s lips. “You deserve it. More than you know.”

Sherlock smiles, holding him tighter, and with the feeling of their mouths pressed together, John lets sleep overtake him.


	28. “Are you arguing with the television again?”

The snow comes in thick and fast, covering everything in sight in just a few hours. Sherlock decidedly doesn’t want to go outside  _ at all _ today, but John is insisting that they need to go shopping for food (boring) so that they can cook (boring) and have dinner (boring). 

He’d much rather just stay in and ignore his bodily demands in favour of his latest experiment in the molecular insights to be gained from spider silk. John is entirely unimpressed that he has insisted that Mrs Hudson stop dusting the corners of their flat for his data collection but he had shrugged earlier this morning and kissed him on the head and called him ‘cute’, whatever that’s supposed to mean, so he thinks the experiment is still greenlit.

They bundle up in their coats and Sherlock leans down to loop John’s scarf around his neck after he does his own. John beams up at him, kissing him on the tip of his nose. Once they’re in their respective gear, they open the door, squinting against the snow and the cold, and struggle against the weather all the way to the shop.

John grabs a basket when they’re inside, scolding Sherlock for being on his phone instead of helping him pick out groceries.

“I want to make spaghetti bolognese tonight,” he’s saying, adding a tin of chopped tomatoes to the basket. “You like spaghetti bolognese.”

“Do I?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes, you always eat it and you always go back for seconds.”

“Maybe I just like  _ you _ and I want to flatter you via your cooking.”

“You never do that when I make cottage pie.”

“That’s because your cottage pie is a monumental failure every time.”

John chuckles, giving Sherlock’s arm a small squeeze before continuing down the aisle.

Sherlock sighs and follows, bored as ever. He can’t stop thinking about his experiment at home, and how, if he manipulates the length of time the spider’s web is allowed to stay up, it might change the results.

“Sherlock. Grab some olive oil, would you?” John breaks him out of his speculations.

He sighs again and goes in search of the olive oil, getting distracted by his hypothesising twice along the way, which leaves him with an exasperated John waiting for him at the checkout.

Sherlock can’t help but smile. No matter what they’ve become and how they’ve progressed, they’re still so quintessentially  _ them  _ at their core. They haven’t tried to change each other, nor have they felt the need to change for each other, beyond the necessary accommodations one must always make when entering into a new relationship.

It’s so perfect, really, that he can’t help but marvel at his good fortune while John packages their groceries and shoves one of the bags into his hand.

“What are you smiling about?” John asks him once they’re outside.

“Nothing. It’s just. I like this.”

“What? Being us?”

“Yes. Being us.”

“I like it, too,” John smiles in return, taking his free hand and not letting go until they’ve climbed the stairs and opened the door to the flat.

“It’s bloody freezing,” John complains once they’re inside and have taken off their outerwear. “Light us a fire, will you?”

Sherlock complies, wondering how else they can keep warm and blushing when he thinks of a few of the less savoury options.

“ _ Now _ what are you smiling about?” John asks from the kitchen.

“Us having sex.”

“Naked sex?” John teases him.

“Yes,” he smirks, “Very naked sex.”

He walks into the kitchen, snuggling up behind John as he puts the spaghetti into the pot to boil and holding him around the waist. John reaches back with one hand, cupping his face. They stay like that for a while, swaying to the music of their bodies, love surrounding them in the little space.

Sherlock even helps John cook, chopping carrots and garlic and onions and insisting that John should have frozen the onions beforehand so he wouldn’t have tears streaming down his face. John wipes them all away and kisses him on every part of his face, so he forgives him.

They eat in companionable silence, Sherlock proving John right when he goes back to dish up his seconds. John rubs Sherlock’s foot with his own under the table and Sherlock tries not to choke on his mince.

John receives a text from Molly while they’re finishing up. 

“She wants us to join her for her New Year’s Eve party,” he says after discarding his phone again. 

Sherlock sighs, “I guess we can make a  _ brief _ appearance.”

“Wow,” John says, squeezing Sherlock’s arm as he helps clear their dishes from the table. “Since you’re so amenable this evening, how about a movie?” 

“No James Bond.”

“I promise.”

“Fine. Choose something. I’m going to go slip into something more comfortable,” he jokes, wagging his eyebrows up and down for comedic effect.

“Sherlock, you prance around the house naked a good quarter of the time. There’s nothing you could come out here in that would surprise me at this point.”

They giggle at that, memories of sheets in Buckingham Palace coming to the fore. A past that is fond and yet tinged with a hint of melancholy.

“I loved you then, you know,” John says, interrupting his pensive nostalgia.

“And I you,” he replies, letting the moment settle. 

“Not Irene Adler?”

Sherlock scoffs at that. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m extremely gay and extremely attracted to exactly one man.”

John feigns surprise at this, putting a hand up to his chest and batting his eyelids. “Who, me?”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock laughs, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him towards him.

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” John murmurs into the kiss.

“Yes, you’re my idiot. And I love you.”

He gives John a final kiss before going to get changed, putting on his most comfortable pyjamas and dressing gown.

When he comes back, John is in the living room, hooking his laptop up to the TV.

“What fresh hell are you going to put me through tonight?” Sherlock teases, plopping himself onto the couch.

“Okay, imagine this: a wife goes missing on a couple’s fifth wedding anniversary. The prime suspect? Her husba—”

“No. Boring. She faked her own death. I should know,” he winks, earning him an eyeroll from John. “What else have you got?”

“You utter prat, you just ruined the twist of the film for me.”

“It wasn’t obvious?”

“Not in the slightest. It’s the whole point of the— Nevermind. Okay. Have you seen  _ Zodiac _ ?”

Sherlock perks up at that. “Is that about the Zodiac killer?” He deflates again, “Or is it about astrology. If it’s about astrology, I’m going to leave right now.”

“Yes, it’s about the Zodiac killer, prat. And it happens to be critically acclaimed.”

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think it makes a whit of difference to me whether a film is critically acclaimed or not?”

“Fair point. Okay, let’s put it on.”

He finds the film on Netflix and hits play, going to settle down where Sherlock has already made himself comfortable on the couch. John sits next to him, nice and close, and pulls the throwover on top of them, making sure to tuck Sherlock in.

“Wait,” Sherlock says, two minutes in. “I’m starting to suspect that this isn’t a documentary.”

“Well, whyever would you think it was a documentary?”

“Why on earth  _ wouldn’t _ it be a documentary?”

“Because it’s a David Fincher film.”

“What’s a David Fincher film?”

“Nevermind, just keep quiet and watch. Here, you can put your head in my lap and I’ll play with your hair.” John makes room for Sherlock’s head, maneuvering them so that they’re comfortable and snuggled into the blanket still. “Better?”

Sherlock nods as he nuzzles into John’s lap.

He’s as content as he could possibly be, the film much better and more accurate than he thought it would be, especially given the fact that it’s a fictional retelling, something he generally avoids at all costs.

Near the climax of the film, he starts to debate the main suspect, bringing into question all the things he knows from both real life and the portrayal.

“Are you arguing with the television again?” John chuckles, pushing his hair back and kissing his forehead.

“Well, it’s about time somebody solved this case,” Sherlock points out.

“And you’re just the man to do it?”

“Who else?”

“Right, who else,” John says warmly, kissing him again.

The movie ends and Sherlock realises that he hasn’t thought about his experiment or a case for the entirety of the evening. 

In the past, the idea of sharing a quiet, domestic night with anybody would be abhorrent to him. Now, though, he is so utterly fulfilled that John could tell him they’re watching paint dry for a day and he’d willingly and gleefully oblige.

His life has changed so drastically in so short a span of time, and he’s eternally grateful for it. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he could have this always, he would be a happy man well beyond the years when cases and experiments are no longer a possibility.

As John takes him to bed that night, he whispers this and more into his skin, needing to pour out every sentiment before he forgets or it becomes the norm.

John takes it all in, offering the same back and more.

They fall asleep snuggled tight against each other, the snowstorm outside a forgotten detail.


	29. “You look surprised. I thought you knew everything about me.”

“Dammit!” Sherlock yells and throws the microscope slide across the room, allowing it to hit the kitchen wall and shatter dramatically.

John pokes his head in from the living room, sighing, “I hope you’re going to clean that one.”

“It’s just not working! All this time! All those cobwebs!” he tugs at his hair in frustration, willing a solution to spring forth into his mind.

“Sorry, love,” John says distractedly.

He has been distracted all day, jittery and in his own head. Sherlock has only semi-deduced it because he’s been too busy working on his useless experiment. He looks at him now, a good, hard look. Obviously, John wants to ask him something. What? Sherlock looks and looks. Something of a romantic nature. A date? Why should John be nervous to ask Sherlock on a date? He’s about to ask him why he’s so nervous when he realises he should rather let John have his moment uninterrupted by Sherlock’s unwelcome deductions.

He returns to his experiment, becoming absorbed in it until hours later, when he feels more than sees John standing in the doorway, lingering.

He looks up questioningly.

“Want to take a bath together?” John asks, wringing his hands.

“Busy,” he replies, looking back in his microscope while simultaneously taking notes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees John deflate a bit and let out a soft sigh.

Is this what John had been wanting to ask him? 

Curious.

He considers the practicalities of bathing together: where would they fit, for one thing? For another, what would be the point? They wouldn’t even really be able to get clea—

Oh.

“John,” he calls from the kitchen, walking towards the bathroom where he hears John turning off the tap. “I think I’ll join you after all. I never considered  _ all  _ the facts once again.”

“I’m in here, love,” John answers from inside the bathroom.

He walks in and is instantly surprised. When had John found the time to light all these candles? He wasn’t even aware that they  _ had  _ this many candles. Not only that, but the bath itself, full of bubbles, smells glorious - like lavender and bergamot and a hint of cedarwood. There are also red rose petals scattered around and in the bathwater.

“John,” Sherlock says in awe. “When did you do all this?”

“When you were throwing slides against the wall,” John replies with a bright grin, blooming and pregnant. “Let’s get in before it gets cold.”

They undress in silence, the still, thick air of the room creating a sort of refuge.

John climbs in first, stretching out and leaning his back against the head of the bath.

Sherlock waits, tentative, uncertain as to how he’s going to fit, where his place is. 

“Come on,” John smiles sweetly, letting his legs fall open.

Sherlock climbs in, settling with his back against John’s chest, sighing into the embrace. This is exactly what he needed to fight off the cold and his irritation over his failing experiment. He allows himself to breathe in the sensuous aromas, soaking himself in the hot water and in John, feeling almost drunk on it.

“Even after I’ve been a royal prat all day, this is how you treat me? What have I done to deserve somebody like you?” he asks, breaking the silence eventually. 

It echoes words spoken many years ago over one of the more turbulent times in their lives.

“Everything,” John replies, seeming to understand exactly what he’s thinking. He kisses him softly on the back of his neck. “My only regret…”

“Yes?”

“My only regret is all the years that have gone by, without this,” he chokes out a sob.

“Oh, darling, don’t,” Sherlock says, turning around into John’s arms and kissing him on the eyelids. “We’re here now, and I’m determined that that’s what matters.”

“How are you so at peace with it?”

“I’m not. Or I wasn’t. I’ve had to rationalise it in my mind and realise that I could be sad about all the time we wasted, or I could not waste any time further and just be grateful for what I have. And what I have,” he says, slithering down John’s body and kissing him on the clavicle, “is the best thing of all. I’d do anything to make sure I don’t mess it up. Not again.”

“You didn’t mess it up. You’ve never messed it up,” John replies, putting his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Then why did I have to chase you to the airport?” he smiles into John’s chest.

“Because you’re a romantic, I thought we established that.”

“And because I love you and I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You couldn’t lose me, even if you tried to.”

“I’d never try and I’m glad I can’t.”

“Sherlock,” John suddenly turns even more serious, his gaze intense.

“Mmm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, darling.”

“And I want to be with you. For the rest of our lives. For as long as you’ll have me and for as long as I have breath.”

Sherlock feels a hitch in his throat. All he can do is nod, eyes full of emotion.

“Yeah?” John asks, taking him by the jaw and kissing him, tender as ever.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. One word, all true, encompassing everything.  _ Yes, John, yes, always yes. _

“Will you marry me?” John asks, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“What?” Sherlock lifts himself up, surprise on his features, eyes wide, water sloshing over the sides of the bath.

“I said: Will you marry me?” John says, and it’s so simple. Just like that. “You look surprised. I thought you knew everything about me.”

John is calm. Cool and calm and collected. How is he so calm? In the face of such a monumental conversation?

All Sherlock can do is look at him and blink and blink.

“I don’t have a ring or anything and I wanted to go down on one knee and do it properly, but I just—”

Sherlock surges forward, kissing the words out of John’s mouth. He kisses hungrily, up and down John’s neck and face.

John chuckles through the onslaught, “Is that a yes, then?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock huffs out between kisses. “Obviously, yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

They share long, tearful kisses, whispers of  _ forever  _ and  _ yes _ echoing in the bathroom long after they’ve gone to bed.


	30. "Sharing is caring."

John turns around in Sherlock’s arms, their bodies still sweaty and hot from the brilliant shag they just had. Still feeling entirely giddy, John captures Sherlock’s lips in a long, deep kiss. Hands roaming all over Sherlock’s back, he shifts closer - if possible - and kisses him just a little harder. He still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he proposed, that he actually asked for Sherlock to marry him. In complete honesty, it isn’t such a shock in the end. Just a few nights ago he had planned out their lives, their growing old together, and marriage had been the only logical next step. 

And now, they were engaged. Ridiculously happy and engaged. 

“You’re gonna to marry me,” John whispers when they pull apart.

“And you’re going to marry me,” Sherlock whispers back, grinning. 

John can’t help but giggle, searching for Sherlock’s hand and lacing their fingers together.

“I want to get you a ring,” he says.

Sherlock’s eyes widen just a little, as if the promise of a ring wasn’t obvious. 

“Only if we get one for you, too,” he replies after a little while, voice raw with emotion.

“People will think we’re already married if we both have an engagement ring,” John points out, not really caring.

“Sometimes it feels as if we already are,” Sherlock murmurs, pressing his lips to John’s temple as if to breathe to words there.

John holds him closer, loves him harder. 

“I want to tell people,” he says. “I want every-bloody-body to know.”

Sherlock laughs, body shaking against John’s.

“I don’t mind.”

“I want to get married as soon as possible,” John continues, suddenly unable to stop.

“Mycroft can arrange that.”

“I want vows and blue and intimacy. I want you.”

Sherlock pulls away just enough to look at him, “Yes, darling.”

“I want to dance,” John smiles. “I want to dance with you all evening.”

Sherlock brushes his lips against his cheek, the ghost of a kiss making all of John’s body shudder. They kiss, slow and tender this time. John lets it properly sink in, the wonder, the excitement, the unconditional love. 

“You know who we should tell first?” Sherlock asks, a small, private smile on his lips.

“I think I do.”

“We could make her biscuits for once,” Sherlock says. “With some sugar, she shouldn’t faint.”

John rolls his eyes, “She isn’t going to faint. Is she?”

“I guess we’ll know soon enough,” Sherlock shrugs.

It takes them another thirty minutes to get out of bed, having by then decided on cupcakes. Sherlock insists on helping, and so they get started, together. 

John reads the instructions out loud, all they need already set out on the table. They go slow, one or the other interrupting the process with kisses and some rather obvious groping. Still, they manage to bake a whole ten cupcakes, the two of them staring at the mess they’ve made doing so. 

“I have a feeling they’re going to be excellent,” John says, one finger gathering what’s left in the bowl.

“I’m sure you do,” Sherlock says, reaching for some, too.

John takes the bowl away, laughing, “No, you had enough while we were busy making them.”

Sherlock frowns, “I did not.”

John nods, finger in his mouth, smiling. 

“Haven’t you heard,” Sherlock says, taking a step toward him, “Sharing is caring.”

“You’re one to ta–”

John can’t finish his sentence, his face suddenly covered in flour while Sherlock stares at him, a wide smile on his lips. 

“You did not,” John says under his breath, setting the bowl to the side and gathering some of the flour from the table.

What follows can only be described as a food fight, which is ridiculous if you ask him, but John finds that he’s perfectly happy with smashing jam on Sherlock’s cheek. After all, he gets to kiss it clean right after. Still, they end up sharing a shower that turns into much more than just that, only to have Sherlock rush out to take the cupcakes out of the oven before they all burn. John emerges from the bathroom, stark naked and still laughing.

“I don’t think I ever saw that perfect arse of yours disapear so fast.”

Sherlock glares at him. “At least they’re saved.”

John comes closer. The cupcakes look amazing. 

“Let’s hurry,” he says. “I’m hungry.”

They make quick work of getting dressed, each keeping their hands to themselves. John places the cupcakes on a plate while Sherlock grabs a bottle of milk. They go down to Mrs Hudson’s, knocking. 

“Boys, is something the mat– Did you bake those?”

“They’re for you,” John says.

Mrs Hudson looks even more surprised. “Me?”

“We have some news,” Sherlock says, coming inside.

“News?”

They all sit down on Mrs Hudson’s small sofa, John giving her a cupcake and waiting until she has a bite before saying, “Sherlock and I are getting married.”

A long minute passes, spent in complete silence. Mrs Hudson’s face changes from concerned to surprised to delighted until tears are pearling in her eyes.

“Married?” she breathes.

John beams a little harder, lacing his fingers with Sherlock’s. “Yes. Married.”

“Oh boys,” she sighs, properly crying now. “I am so happy for you.”

Sherlock wraps an arm around her shoulder, bringing her closer so that she can rest her head on his shoulder. 

John leans close to his ear, whispering, “No fainting.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. 

“You must tell me,” Mrs Hudson says after regaining some composure. “Absolutely everything.”

John gives a small nod, leaning back against the sofa as Sherlock starts to explain it all. He listens closely, eyes falling shut towards the part where he arrives in South Africa, too. It’s strange, hearing it all, as if those events had taken place months, years ago. Being this close with Sherlock already feels so natural, so intimate that they could have been _this_ since the very beginning. 

“Oh no, dear,” Mrs Hudson exclaims during their fight. “I hope you now communicate with each other at the very least.”

“We do,” John says, placing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s neck.

“Good, good. Now, go on.”

John can’t help but smile when Sherlock omits the rather long hours spent in bed, in another continent or this one. His own lips are trembling when Sherlock recalls his proposal, heart growing two sizes bigger inside his chest. 

“I mustn't hold you back any longer,” Mrs Hudson declares at the end of the story. “Finding the right rings can be so difficult, you’re going to need time to properly choose.”

She all but throws them out with more congratulations and promises to invite them both out to properly celebrate after the New Year. Sherlock rushes upstairs to get both of their coats. John takes his hand as soon as they’re outside, one finger stroking where Sherlock’s ring will soon be. The cold air makes him shiver but Sherlock is already pulling at his waist.

Closer.


	31. "Here's to us."

“Do we have to?” Sherlock whines again, buttoning his shirt as John ties his shoelaces from where he sits on the other edge of the bed. 

“For the last time, we’ve said we’d go, so let’s just go and get it over with. You’ve never had a New Year’s kiss, I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss I’ve ever given a damn about. I just wanted us to be together and ring in the new year with people we love.” He looks over his shoulder, adding, “If you’re having a terrible time, we can leave early. Alright?” 

John stands up and walks over to him, curling an arm around Sherlock’s waist, holding him tight and brushing his lips against Sherlock’s. “Alright?” he asks again, softer this time, like he’s really asking. 

“Yes. Fine,” Sherlock replies. “But only if you promise to rescue me from any hideous small talk. I mean it. The very minute you hear one of Molly’s dull friends comment on the weather or anything to do with politics, you have to make up an excuse.”

“I’ll save you every time, don’t worry,” John promises. 

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

They take a cab to Molly’s, opting to escape the cold, but realise their mistake when it takes almost double the time with all the traffic. They had eaten dinner before leaving the flat, taking their time over a lasagne that John had made from scratch. Sherlock had ended up feeding most of his portion to John, smearing greasy kisses on his mouth and giggling into their desserts. If only the evening could have ended there, with John taking him to bed and stripping him down in the dark of their bedroom, he would’ve been a happy man. 

John’s right, though: they did say they’d go. He also wants to give John what he wants, and John seems to want this.

He doesn’t even realise that his leg is bouncing anxiously up and down until John’s hand is on his thigh, soothing, stilling, silencing. 

He looks over at John, who offers him a warm, knowing smile as they pull up outside Molly’s flat. “We can leave whenever you need to,” he reiterates quietly before taking him by the hand and leading him out of his side of the car. 

John holds on firmly while they knock on the door and are invited in by somebody Sherlock swears he has never seen before but who John knows by name and they greet Molly and put the wine they brought with in the kitchen. 

He holds him still while they stand to the side chatting to Lestrade about a cold case he’s going to send over and while they laugh over an old story from a time they almost arrested the wrong twin. 

At some point, John gets caught up in a conversation about some kind of sport (rugby? Tennis? Cricket? Who’s to say) with Lestrade and Molly pulls him to one side. 

“Congratulations,” she says, beaming up at him. “Mrs H told me about your engagement. I think it’s brilliant. Really, really brilliant.”

He searches her face for any sign of insincerity or wistfulness, but finds only genuine joy there. 

“Thank you, Molly,” he says, and squeezes her hand with a small smile. “I wish you all the same.” He finds that he, too, means it. 

She looks at him for a moment, probably discerning his intention as well. “Thank you. I don’t know that it’s possible to find something like the two of you have, but I’ll be lucky to have even a little bit of it.” 

He looks over at John, who’s smiling into his conversation, eyes brilliant and focused. 

Molly follows his gaze. “What’s the secret?” she asks softly. 

“The right person,” he says, without even having to think twice. “And the right timing,” he adds with a tinge of melancholy sentiment on his heart. 

“Excuse me.” He dismisses himself to find a quiet space, opening Molly’s bedroom door and letting himself in. He just needs a moment to gather himself. 

The room is, by all accounts, extremely Molly-esque, with cat-themed accessories and fluffy pillows adorning the bed. He sits by the window on an ottoman and look out into the night. Although he’s not having a terrible time, he finds himself wishing once again that he could just be alone with John easing his nagging insecurities and pressing his mouth to his neck in the darkness. 

It’s still so fragile, what they have, so new. And yet, the strength of their love for and devotion to each other provides the perfect cornerstone upon which they are able to blossom into what they now are and have. 

It’s not that he doubts John’s love for him; it’s that he sometimes doubts his worthiness for that love. 

As he’s ruminating on this and more, the door opens slowly, John slipping through the crack with a little smile. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, walking over and kneeling on the floor in front of where Sherlock sits. He braces his hands on Sherlock’s knees, asks, “You alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “Just gathering my thoughts.”

“Hmm.” John lifts his hand to stroke Sherlock’s hair from his temple. “Care to share?”

“Well. I’m wondering how is it you’re able to love me as ferociously as you do.”

“Ah,” John lifts his eyebrows with something like understanding. “The age-old question. That one’s easy, though. Don’t you have any tougher ones for me to answer?”

Sherlock smirks, leans forward to place his forehead against John’s. 

“The reason I’m able to love you as ferociously as I do,” John murmurs into their joint breath, “is because you’re you, and I’m me. It’s really as simple as that.”

Sherlock considers this for a moment, knowing instantly how truthful the effortless statement is. He knows it because he  _ feels _ it and, more than that, because he feels the same: because he’s Sherlock and John is John, they love one another. They were made to love one another, in this universe and any other they happen to find themselves. The course of their lives could not be made whole without this fact. 

“Want to go home?” John asks.

“No, I’m okay. We can stay a while.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Right, then. Let’s go out and see who’s keen to talk about all this rain we’ve been having lately, yeah?” John stands and offers a hand to Sherlock as Sherlock laughs easily. 

“I don’t know,” he counters, rising to his feet and crowding over John, silently requesting a kiss. “I thought maybe we could hear more about Molly’s friend’s uncle’s leg surgery. I didn’t get enough of it the first time round. The riveting and slightly gory medical details will provide us with an endless amount of witty, insightful back-and-forth, I’m sure.”

John barks a laugh between chaste kisses to Sherlock’s mouth and cheeks and nose-tip. 

They rejoin the small throng of people, John not losing contact with him at any point - he holds him by the waist, the wrist, the hand. This silent reassurance is enough for him to be able to take the edge off, and he actually finds himself beginning to have a good time, joining in the various conversations when it isn’t too fatuous.

“Five minutes everybody!” Molly shouts from the middle of the room after some time, and a blanket of excitement sweeps over everybody.

Sherlock has never understood the point of this celebration, really. New years, to him, don’t represent anything more than a pointless observance culminating, oftentimes, in disappointment owing to the ridiculously ambitious resolutions made during the previous year - as though one could become, just by the passage of time moving them from one minute to the next, an entirely different person with entirely new habits, motivations and intentions.

Now, more than ever, he doesn’t see the purpose. He has John, he has the promise of a future with him; why would he need to look forward to another year in order to appreciate his good fortune?

John takes him by the hand and pulls him into a quieter corner of the room, away from the little group.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, taking both of Sherlock’s forearms in his hands and pulling him closer.

“Not much. Just how nonsensical the celebration of the changing of the date is.”

John grins, the one that’s filled to the brim with love and tenderness and Sherlock ducks his head.

“Well. Regardless, I’m glad I’m here. With you.”

“As am I,” he responds, hoping to convey just how much he means it.

“It’s almost time.”

“Yes.”

“So. Any resolutions? I know you think it’s pointless, but maybe just one?”

He looks down into John’s face, so open and sincere, so full of promise and ardour. “To marry you,” he says, turning serious.

John beams, lighting up the room with his glee. 

“What about you?”

“Well, I was going to say I wanted to eat healthier and maybe be a bit more organised, but now I look like a prat after what you said.”

A beat passes while they look at each other, and then they burst into giggles, sweet like Sunday mornings in bed together.

All around them, the exhilarated anticipation builds as there are incoherent shouts, finally culminating in the inevitable countdown.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

As they shout out, John turns to face Sherlock, looking him directly in the eyes. He begins to mouth along: “Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three.”

Sherlock even joins in for the “Two. One.”

“Happy New Year, love,” John says amidst whoops of  _ Happy New Year!  _ “Here’s to us.”

“Happy New Year, darling,” Sherlock says, right before John brings him down for a gentle, slow kiss. 

He quite thinks he could get used to this, knowing he has forever to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos and, above all, for following this story. It was quite a challenge, but definitely one we're glad to have undertaken. You can follow us on tumblr for more fics, ficlets and updates (johnwatso at [xtiin](http://xtiin.tumblr.com) and Salambo06 at [beenchantd](http://beenchantd.tumblr.com)).


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